.■->.': 


tbt  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 


sN.ViM 


THE  PENITENTES 
OF    SAN    RAFAEL 

A  Tale  of  the  San  Luis  Valley 


BY 

LOUIS  HOW 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1900 

The  Bowen-Merrill  Company 

All  Rights  Reserved 


■•• . 


TO  MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  PRESCOTT  WARREN, 
FOR  WHOM  THE  PENITENTES  WAS  ORIGIN- 
ALLY WRITTEN,  I  NOW  DEDICATE  THIS  TALE 


CONTENTS 

i 

One  Lover  the  Less  i 

II 
A  Genuine  Zurburan  18 

III 
At  San  Rafael  27 

IV 
A  Promise  of  Help  38 

V 
A  Great  Fear  46 

VI 
The  House  of  the  Dead  52 

VII 
Pasco  and  Paez  64 

VIII 
Pride  of  Birth  73 

IX 
A  Sign  in  the  Sky  82 

X 
Dolores  Waits  90 

XI 
He  Comes  and  Goes  95 

XII 
Contrary  Visions  106 


CONTENTS 

XIII 

Fanita's  Choice 

116 

XIV 

A  Lover's  Promise 

120 

XV 

The  Curfew 

126 

XVI 

A  Recruiting  Office 

131 

XVII 

An  Arbiter  of  Fate 

138 

XVIII 

Casting  the  Lot 

'44 

XIX 

A  Cross  Bearer 

152 

XX 

The  Coming  of  Stange 

159 

XXI 

Fay  Grady 

175 

XXII 

Priest  Meets  Priest 

183 

XXIII 

Stange 's  Advice 

191 

XXIV 

Diplomacy 

198 

XXV 

A  Saint  among  Saints 

207 

XXVI 

Dangerous  Advice 

214 

XXVII 

A  Threat  and  a  Plea 

223 

CONTENTS 

XXVIII 

The  Braying  of  an  Ass 

235 

XXIX 

Fay's  Guest 

243 

XXX 

A  Mormon  Embassy 

260 

XXXI 

Father  Chucho  Warned 

269 

XXXII 

A  Prisoner  in  the  Priest's  House 

279 

XXXIII 

Devlin  Returns 

287 

XXXIV 

A  Search  for  a  Letter 

302 

XXXV 

A  Desperate  Lover 

318 

XXXVI 

A  Plot  with  Wivvers 

325 

XXXVII 

Feeding  the  Hungry 

33i 

XXXVIII 

Fay  Goes  Too  Far 

336 

XXXIX 

An  Ineffective  Siege 

343 

XL 

The  Vigil 

356 

XLI 

The  Fight  at  the  Church 

362 

XLII 

Fay's  Future 

377 

THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

PART  FIRST 

I 

ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS 

ATa  branching  of  the  heavy  sand  road  the 
/— \  young  rider  made  toward  a  brown  spot 
-*-  -*-  that  might  promise  shade.  He  was  rid- 
ing down  from  the  hills,  where  he  had  been  fish- 
ing for  a  week,  to  La  Jara,  to  catch  a  train.  The 
San  Luis  Valley  was  pitiless  with  a  mid-summer 
heat  as  monotonous  as  an  oven.  He  had  passed 
through  the  Penitentes'  village,  with  its  black 
crosses  marking  fallen  cross-bearers,  and  was 
now  in  the  midst  of  the  broad  plain.  The  sun 
beat  down  from  a  dead  blue  sky  and  the  glare 
beat  up  from  the  brown  sand.  The  mirage 
twinkled  on  the  distant  horizon.  Even  Mount 
Blanca,  massive  and  blue,  with  a  patch  of  snow 
on  his  head,  did  not  look  cool. 

The  horse  plowed  wearily  along.  But  sure 
enough,  after  another  suffocating  interminable 
ten  minutes,  there  was  an  adobe  house,  which 
seemed  to  be  built  right  up  against  the  blue  sky. 
As  he  stopped  to  water  his  dejected  horse  at  an 
artesian  well  trough  across  the  road,  a  girl  came 

l 


*   THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

running  to  him  from  the  deliciously  cool-looking 
darkness  of  the  house.  She  had  a  pretty  Spanish 
face. 

"Get  down  and  let  me  have  the  horse,"  she 
gasped,  "I  must  go  for  the  Padre.  She's  dying." 
And  she  pointed  a  dark  arm  to  the  adobe  house. 

She  wore  a  coarse  blue  skirt  to  her  bare  ankles, 
and  a  brown  blouse  with  low  neck  and  short 
sleeves. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  said.  "An- 
tonito?    I'll  send  the  priest." 

"No,"  insisted  the  girl,  looking  up  at  him 
with  her  eager  black  eyes.  "I  must  ride.  You 
can't  ride.  Get  down!"  She  seized  the  bridle 
and  shook  it. 

"Where  are  your  own  horses?"  he  asked. 

"Sist'  won't  keep  none,"  she  said,  quickly. 
"O,  hurry!    I  must  go.    She's  dying." 

The  shade  of  the  porch  looked  very  inviting. 

"She  must  have  the  last  Sacraments,"  she 
begged  piteously.  "Get  down.  Nobody  won't 
hurt  you." 

She  was  on  the  horse  as  soon  as  he  was  off, 
and  with  a  click  and  a  slap  on  his  flank,  actually 
made  him  spring  away  and  into  a  gallop.  She 
turned  in  the  high  Mexican  saddle  to  shout  back, 
"Sit  on  the  veranda.    Don't  go  in!" 

After  drinking  from  the  artesian  well  spout, 
he  walked  through  the  hot  sand  to  the  shade  of 
the  light  roof  resting  on  two  poles  that  formed 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  3 

the  veranda.  Sitting  on  a  bench  against  the 
house  wall,  he  took  off  his  wide  hat  and  fanned 
himself  with  it,  and  wiped  his  flushed  face  with 
his  handkerchief.  The  glare  hurt  his  eyes  so 
that  he  put  on  his  hat  again.  He  wished  there 
were  one  tree  in  the  blue  and  yellow  scene. 
There  was  not  a  sound,  not  a  breath  of  air;  and 
except  the  girl  on  his  horse  galloping  up  the 
level  road,  there  was  not  a  thing  in  motion. 

Once,  while  he  sat  there,  a  tired  voice  from 
inside  called,  "Dolores!"  He  turned  and  stared 
into  the  darkness,  but  could  see  nothing;  and  it 
did  not  call  again. 

The  girl  and  the  horse  were  getting  farther 
and  farther  away  till  they  were  almost  part  of  the 
mirage.  At  last  it  seemed  to  him,  as  best  he 
could  make  out  through  the  quivering  steam  of 
heat,  that  they  had  stopped.  Then  he  was  aware 
of  another  rider  joining  them.  Finally  the  two 
moved  off  together,  apparently  on  another  road. 
It  was  hard  to  distinguish  in  the  glare.  They 
seemed  to  halt  once  more.  He  thought  one  of 
them  dismounted.  It  hurt  his  eyes  to  look. 
Then  he  thought  he  got  on  again;  or  was  it 
Dolores?  Finally  they  rode  off,  hurrying  in 
opposite  directions.  One  disappeared  in  the 
mirage,  and  the  other  soon  was  only  a  speck 
moving  along  in  the  tremulous  air  near  the 
ground. 

Then  finally  a  figure  focused  itself  again  on 


4        THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

the  road,  coming  towards  him,  on  foot.  It  was 
the  girl,  and  she  came  running  back,  kicking 
up  a  great  dust. 

"Where  is  my  horse?"  he  cried,  as  she  panted 
into  the  porch  and  sank  down  on  the  bench  be- 
side him. 

"He's  all  right,"  she  gasped,  pointing  up  the 
road  while  getting  her  breath. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  voice  from  with- 
in called  again,  "Dolores!" 

The  girl  sprang  up  and  ran  in.  Next  moment 
she  came  out  with  a  tin  pan  in  her  hand,  ran 
across  to  the  artesian  well,  and  was  back  imme- 
diately with  a  pan  full  of  water. 

Soon  she  came  out  again  and  sat  on  the  bench. 

"I  loaned  your  horse  to  Cristobal,"  she  ex- 
plained. "He  didn't  have  no>  horse  this  morn- 
ing. He'll  bring  him  back,"  she  added  reassur- 
ingly. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Of  course  he  will,"  she  insisted,  opening  wide 
her  very  Spanish  eyes  and  shaking  her  head  seri- 
ously; "both  of  'em  '11  try  to  get  here  the  soon- 
est. I  promised  I'd  marry  the  one  that  fetched 
the  Padre  first " 

"Marry " 

"Yes,  sir.  I  give  my  hand  on  it.  I  wasn't 
really  ready  to  make  up  my  mind  yet;  but  I 
don't  know  whether  the  Padre's  in  Antonito  or 
La  Jara,  and  she's  dying," 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  5 

He  stared  at  her.  She  had  a  rich  complexion; 
and  a  fine  large  mouth  with  straight  teeth. 

"Is  she  your  mother?"  he  asked. 

"My  name  is  Dolores,"  she  said  simply. 

"But  I  guess  she'll  last  till  he  comes,"  she 
began,  again,  twisting  at  the  back  of  her  glossy 
black  hair  which  was  falling.  "If  she  don't,  I've 
done  all  I  could.  She's  only  my  half-sister  any- 
way. She's  a  half-breed,  too;  I'm  Spanish.  And 
she's  treated  me  cruel  enough;  but  I  don't  want 
her  to  die  without  the  last  Sacraments.  What 
more  could  I  do,  though?  I've  promised  to 
marry  one  of  them  long  before  I  ever  thought 
to  decide." 

She  laughed  quite  gaily. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  crossing  one  bare 
foot  over  the  other.  He  noticed  how  high  her 
insteps  were.  "It's  like  this:  they're  the  only 
two  men  in  the  Valley  with  real  Spanish  blood, 
and  so  I've  got  to  marry  one  of  them.  I'm  a 
Castilian,  I  am,"  she  said  proudly,  but  smiling 
rather  cynically,  as  if  in  mockery  of  herself. 
"Anyway,  my  grandfather  was.  Anunciato  ain't 
real  Spanish;  only  Mexican.  But  he's  the  best 
looking,  and  he's  on  his  own  horse,  and  he's  got 
the  most  money.  Cristobal's  the  one  I  like 
most,  though,  and  his  father  was  real  Spanish. 
But  he's  on  that  horse  of  yours.  It  just  depends, 
though,  who  meets  the  Father  first." 


6        THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

For  some  time  the  two  sat  staring  out  into 
the  bright  sunlight.     It  was  very  quiet. 

"Look  at  Blanca,"  said  the  girl.  "The  rain  is 
coming  in  a  day  or  two." 

Then  she  began  to  laugh.  "It's  funny  I  met 
'em  both  just  there,  ain't  it?"  And  added  ten- 
tatively, "I  wonder  what  the  other  one  will  do." 
She  shook  her  head  in  doubt. 

Suddenly  she  jumped  up.  The  young  man 
followed  her  look  up  the  road.  There  was  com- 
ing a  cloud  of  sandy  dust,  golden  in  the  fair 
sunlight.  Instinctively  they  looked  the  other 
way,  too,  and  there  was  another  one,  much 
nearer.  In  this  one  the  galloping  horse  could 
be  distinguished,  and  there  seemed  to  be  two 
people  on  it.  They  could  even  hear  the  muffled 
beat  of  the  hoofs. 

A  shout  from  the  first  rider  swung  both  heads 
round  towards  him  again.  He  was  coming  much 
faster  than  the  other. 

"That's  Anunciato,"  said  the  girl,  her  eyes 
wide  awake  with  excitement.  "Your  horse  don't 
come  so  fast." 

However,  both  horses,  arriving  at  the  same 
time,  drew  up  so  suddenly  face  to  face  that  they 
reared  back  on  their  haunches;  and  the  priest 
was  beginning  to  slide  down  from  behind  Cris- 
tobal. 

At  her  first  sight  of  the  two  wild  riders'  faces, 
Dolores  had  darted  into  the  house,  and  now  was 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  7 

out  again  with  a  little  pearl  revolver  in  her  hand. 
None  too  soon:  for  before  the  priest  was  down, 
the  man  on  the  other  horse, — Anunciato, — had 
leveled  his  revolver  at  his  rival. 

The  priest,  leaning  out  from  behind  Cristobal, 
cried,  "Anunciato,  I  am  here!"  and  Dolores 
shouting,  "I  will  never  marry  a  murderer,"  shot 
off  her  pistol  towards  Anunciato.  Her  report 
rang  only  a  thought  before  his;  but  her  well- 
aimed  ball,  passing  through  his  broad  hatr 
knocked  It  down  over  his  eyes  so  that  he  gave 
a  start  and  his  ball  went  wild.  He  didn't  shoot 
again. 

The  priest,  at  once  down  from  behind  Cris- 
tobal, with  the  skirt  of  his  brown  robe  held  up 
in  one  hand  and  a  small  satchel  in  the  other,  was 
running  toward  Dolores,  who  ran  to  meet  him. 
Before  she  reached  him,  Anunciato,  on  the 
ground  the  moment  after  he  fired,  had  flashed 
past  her,  seized  the  priest,  lifted  him  bodily,  and 
turning  had  tottered  into  the  porch,  carrying 
him,  and  set  him  down  inside  the  door. 

Then  he  quietly  strolled  into  the  road  again, 
supercilious,  and  tied  his  horse  to  the  fence. 

The  young  stranger,  whose  own  horse  stood 
with  lolling  tongue  in  the  road,  sat  down  again 
on  the  bench;  and  the  two  suitors  took  their 
positions  at  either  end  of  the  porch,  one  with 
a  somewhat  troubled,  righteous  air,  the  other 
with  an  ironically  triumphant  smile.    He  spoke 


8        THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL' 

to  each  of  them;  but  they  seemed  to  know  no 
English.  Both  were  of  the  fierce,  black,  south- 
ern type,- — handsome  and  greasy:  the  one  who 
had  brought  the  priest  on  his  horse  had  the  more 
prepossessing  face.  Both  wore  leather  shaps, 
flannel  shirts,  and  spurred  boots  whose  im- 
mensely high  heels  gave  them  insteps  as  fine 
as  the  girl's. 

At  last  the  girl  came  out.  She  had  a  white 
lace  mantilla  thrown  over  her  dark  head,  with 
the  ends  arranged  coquettishly  round  her  brown 
neck.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  closed  fan  that 
seemed  to  be  of  black  lace  and  gold.  Dolores 
minced  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  earthen 
floor,  with  an  affected  strut.  At  last  on  reaching 
Anunciato's  end  she  halted,  tossed  her  head 
pertly,  gave  a  little  fling  to  the  end  of  the  white 
lace,  half-closed  her  eyes,  and  said  in  Spanish, 
with  a  little  drawl,  something  about  "mantilla." 
Then  she  swaggered  back  to  Cristobal's  end,  and 
spread  the  fan,  and  flirted  it  in  the  air.  It  had 
a  brilliant  picture  of  a  bull-fight  on  it.  She  said 
something  to  him  in  Spanish  about  the  fan.  He 
made  no  more  reply  than  Anunciato  had,  but 
he  looked  at  her  with  love  in  his  eyes. 

Dolores  haughtily  turned  from  him  to  come 
with  mincing  steps  to  the  young  stranger  in  the 
middle.  Throwing  back  her  head  and  regard- 
ing him  out  of  her  half-closed  eyes  scornfully, 
she  said  pettishly  in  English:  "I  mayn't  keep  this 


ONE    LOVER  THE    LESS  9 

mantilla,  which  was  my  mother's,  because  I  ain't 
a  blonde.  So  it  goes  to  the  church."  Then  she 
said,  less  affectedly:   'Thank  you  for  the  horse.', 

Suddenly  the  priest  emerged  from  the  dark 
doorway  making  the  sign  of  the  cross.  The  two 
Spaniards  jumped  up  with  their  spurs  clanking 
and  took  their  hats  off. 

Dolores  cried:  "Why,  it's  Father  Maria  de 
Jesus!" 

The  young  stranger,  who  had  just  consulted 
his  watch,  decided  to  risk  catching  his  train. 

"Who  did  you  think  I  was?"  asked  the  priest. 

"I  thought  you  were  Padre  Emanuele  from 
Antonito." 

Anunciato,  waving  one  hand  in  excitement, 
cried  gleefully:  "Ha!  she  didn't  tell  you  to  bring 
the  Penitente  father." 

"Any  priest  would  do  just  as  well,"  growled 
Cristobal. 

"Then  it  doesn't  count,"  laughed  the  other; 
"she  didn't  tell  us  to  get  him." 

Dolores  was  looking  with  troubled  eyes  from 
one  to  the  other.  As  Anunciato  roared  with 
forced  laughter,  Cristobal's  face  grew  blacker. 

"He  gave  her  the  last  Sacraments  as  well  as 
anybody,"  he  insisted. 

"Ha!  but  it's  little  Father  Chucho!"  sneered 
the  other.     "She  didn't  tell  us  to  bring  him." 

Cristobal  squeezed  his  lips  together.  Then 
he  blurted,  "Anyway,  be  still!    You're  a  fool." 


10      THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Anunciato  again  began  his  mocking  laugh. 
"The  poor  boy's  cross,"  he  jeered,  "he's  left  out 
this  time." 

With  one  sudden  reach  behind  his  hip  and  a 
stretching  forth  of  his  right  arm,  Cristobal  fired 
his  revolver  full  into  the  other's  chest.  Anun- 
ciato, in  the  middle  of  a  laugh,  dropped  dead. 

The  other  three  in  the  porch  stared  blankly 
at  the  murderer,  who,  with  his  hands  trembling 
a  little,  picked  out  his  smoking  cartridge  shell 
and  dropped  it  on  the  ground,  before  he  put  back 
his  revolver. 

Then  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice:  "I  thought  I'd 
get  this  rival  business  finished." 

"How  dared  you?"  cried  Dolores,  with  a  sud- 
den sob.  "How  dared  you  shoot  my  lover  be- 
fore me?  You  know  I'll  never  marry  a  mur- 
derer." 

"Won't  you  come  to  Las  Animas  with  me?  I 
did  it  for  you.  You  promised  to,  Lola,  and — 
and  I  brought  the  priest  here,"  he  pleaded 
tremblingly.     "Won't  you  ?" 

But  Dolores,  clinging  to  the  priest's  arm  with 
one  hand,  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  white  mantilla 
with  the  other,  and  shook  her  head  no,  many 
times,  while  she  sobbed. 

Cristobal  looked  hopelessly  at  her.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  priest:  "I  must  get  away  quick. 
Come  inside  and  confess  me." 

The  priest  drew  his  arm  away  from  the  girl. 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  II 

After  they  were  gone  in,  the  young  stranger, 
who  had  gathered  the  meaning  of  most  of  the 
Spanish,  asked  her:  "Are  you  going  to  marry 
this  one?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"No,"  she  said;  "no,  I  can't.  He  shot  Anun- 
ciato.      So  I  can't.     Anyway,  not  now." 

She  stood  with  set  lips  and  dull  eyes,  gazing 
down  at  the  dead  man.  All  her  airs  and  graces 
were  fled,  and  it  was  a  dejected  young  creature 
that  at  last,  after  twice  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross  and  muttering  some  unintelligible  words, 
said  in  a  weak  voice:  "Put  him  straight." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her. 

Her  chin  quivered  as  she  said:  "Please  lay  him 
straight.     See  how  hunched  up  he  is." 

The  young  man,  stooping  gingerly,  reached 
out  one  hand  and  pushed  the  corpse  flat  on  its 
back;  the  arms  fell  into  a  natural  position  and 
he  had  only  to  press  down  the  knees  a  little. 

Dolores  looked  on  with  dry  eyes.  There 
was  one  dirty  little  spot  of  blood  hardening  on 
the  blue  flannel  shirt. 

"Have  you  got  a  handkerchief?"  the  girl 
asked  quietly.  "Thank  you,  I  haven't  got  one. 
Put  it  over  him, — there,"  she  touched  her  bosom 
to  show. 

Cristobal  and  the  priest  came  slowly  out  again. 
Turning  to  them,  she  asked  with  serious  face: 
"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 


12      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Get  to  Las  Animas  as  quick  as  I  can,"  an- 
swered Cristobal,  trying  not  to  look  at  the  long 
figure  lying  at  his  feet.  "Which  way  is  that 
stranger  going?"  he  asked.  "He  won't  peach, 
will  he?" 

The  girl  translated  the  question. 

"I'm  going  to  catch  the  train  north  at  La 
Jara,"  he  said,  "and  I've  just  about  time." 

"If  you  see  the  sheriff,  you  won't  tell,"  inter- 
rupted Dolores. 

"Who  is  the  sheriff?" 

"Dave—" 

"Oh,  he's  my  cousin.  Don't  worry!  He's  up 
in  the  hills  back  there  fishing,  and  won't  be  down 
for  three  days." 

"Of  course,  he  will  tell  no  one,"  put  in  the 
priest  in  English.  "It  would  be  of  no  good. 
Since  he  is  repentant,  God  forgives  him;  and  to 
what  purpose  can  man's  vengeance  serve?" 

"No,  I  won't  tell  a  soul,"  promised  the  strang- 
er, "I've  no  desire  to  get  a  man — " 

Dolores  repeated  this  in  Spanish  to  Cristobal, 
who  had  been  listening  with  an  anxious  look  on 
his  face. 

"You  will  come  with  me,"  he  said,  seemingly 
relieved. 

"Certainly  not,"  cried  the  priest  with  a  step 
forward.  "Can  you  pretend  to  be  truly  repent- 
ant, and  yet  keep  the  fruit  of  your  crime?  What 
sort  of  forgiveness  would  you  hope  for  then? 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  13 

I  have  given  vou  your  penance.-  Go,  do  it. 
That's  the  only  way  you  will  wash  your  bloody 
hands  of  this  murder.  I  will  see  that  Dolores  is 
taken  care  of." 

He  put  out  his  left  hand  to  the  man,  who,  with 
a  cowed  look,  held  it,  while  the  priest  raised  the 
other  in  blessing.  Then  Cristobal  turned  and 
without  a  word,  crossing  the  road,  began  to 
untie  the  dead  man's  horse  from  the  fence.  As 
he  stopped  to  let  him  drink  at  the  trough,  Do- 
lores silently  went  over  to  him. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,  darling,"  said  he  fervently,  seizing 
it.  "You  will  come  to  me  after  a  while;  won't 
you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  say  that,  Lola.  I  did  it  for  your  sake. 
You  forgive  me,  don't  you?  Yes,  I  know  you'll 
come.  I'll  wait  for  you  in  Las  Animas, — I'll 
wait  two  months, — or  I'll  send  you  word  if  I 
have  to  go  to  Mexico." 

She  let  him  pull  her  to  him  and  kiss  her 
fiercely. 

After  he  was  on  the  horse  he  leaned  down 
from  the  high  saddle,  and  looking  into  her  face, 
besought  her,  "Say  you'll  come." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  I'll  give  you  something  to  remember  me 
by,"  she  said. 

"The  pistol!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  looking 


14      THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

with  covetous  eyes  at  the  white  pearl  handle  of 
it  in  the  band  of  her  skirt. 

"No,"  she  answered  decisively.  "This;"  and 
she  drew  the  fan  from  her  bosom. 

As  the  horse  gave  a  restless  start  he  seized  it, 
and  turned  in  the  stirrups  to  wave  it  at  her,  as 
he  galloped  away  up  the  hot  sandy  road. 

The  young  stranger  prepared  to  start  too. 
The  priest  he  shook  by  the  hand,  saying,  "I  hope 
this  will  all  turn  out  all  right;"  but  Dolores's 
hand  he  squeezed,  and  only  said,  "Good-bye,  I 
must  catch  my  train.     Good-bye." 

After  he  was  gone  the  priest  said  to  the  girl, 
who  was  folding  the  white  mantilla  along  its 
creases: 

"I  will  take  you  to  San  Rafael  with  me.  You 
can't  stay  here  alone;  and  nobody  will  hurt 
them,"  he  motioned  into  the  house;  "we'll  come 
down  again  and  see  about  burying  her.  But 
first  we  must  put  him  inside,  too,  before  we  go. 
Help  me,"  he  said,  stooping  to  put  his  hands  un- 
der the  dead  man's  shoulders. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  shuddered  Dolores,  draw- 
ing back. 

So  the  priest  alone  dragged  him  inside. 

The  girl  sinking  down  on  the  bench,  leaned 
against  the  wall  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes, 
quite  still;  till  she  heard  him  call  her.  Jumping 
up  with  a  start,  she  stood  outside  the  door. 

"Come  in  and  light  this  candle,"  he  called. 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  15 

"No,"  she  answered,  pleadingly,  "I'm  afraid  to 
go  in." 

She  stood  leaning  against  the  door-post  till  he 
came  out  again,  holding  a  soiled  cotton  bag  of 
money. 

"I  found  this;  and  it'll  be  safer  to  bring  it." 

"You  ain't  afraid  that — "  began  Dolores,  wav- 
ing her  head  towards  the  door. 

"No,  no!  And  anyway,  I  can't  stay  to  watch. 
My  people  expect  me.  And  I  wouldn't  leave 
you;  and  who  else  is  there?     Come." 

"Wait,"  said  Dolores,  "I  must  have  some 
clothes;"  and  she  went  into  the  house. 

By  and  by  she  came  out  again  with  a  big 
bundle  tied  in  a  red  and  black  checked  shawl; 
and  they  started  out  together  into  the  blazing 
sunlight. 

"How  are  we  going?"  she  asked. 

"On  my  donkey.  I  left  him  down  here  tied  to 
a  fence  when  I  met  Cristobal." 

"Well,  you  have  got  faith  in  the  men  in  the 
Valley,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"Why,  there  ain't  a  man  in  the  San  Luis  Val- 
ley that  would  steal  my  donkey,"  he  answered. 
"They  all  know  him;  unless  it  might  be  the 
Saints  in  Ephraim  and  Manassa." 

They  walked  down  the  road  to  where  the  don- 
key was. 

The  priest  untied  it  and  they  got  on,« — he  in 
front  in  the  low  saddle,  she  astride  behind  him, 


16      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

holding  her  bundle.  The  donkey  started  off  in 
a  slow  gait,  which  was  sometimes  a  dog-trot,  but 
generally  a  walk.  The  sun  poured  down  on 
them.  There  was  not  another  living  creature  to 
be  seen.  On  either  hand  the  hopeless  tawny 
desert  spread  rolling  back  to  where  in  two  bands 
of  mist  there  seemed  to  be  steaming  blue  for- 
ests, growing  in  shadowless,  unstable  blue 
stretches  of  water.  Overhead  the  sky  was  blank 
of  any  relief  in  its  blinding  blue  expanse. 

With  one  arm  Dolores  clung  to  the  Father, 
with  the  other  clasped  her  bundle.  When  she 
found  she  could  support  this  with  her  knee,  she 
let  it  go  for  a  moment,  and  taking  her  pearl- 
handled  pistol  from  her  belt  she  pushed  it  under 
the  shawl  into  the  bundle. 

She  noticed  how  the  black  hair  grew  into  tiny 
twists,  almost  curls,  on  the  priest's  neck.  Mak- 
ing a  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  she  softly  blew 
among  them.,  Then  after  a  minute  or  so  she 
leaned  forward  and  poked  her  nose,  wrigglingly, 
against  his  hair.  The  Father,  who  was  assidu- 
ously saying  his  beads,  took  no  notice  of  these 
caresses. 

They  slowly  mounted  the  plateau  at  the  foot 
of  the  hills.  Although  a  stream  now  came 
alongside  with  real  green  trees  by  it,  the  sun  still 
beat  down  with  all  his  intensity  and  the  glare 
never  ceased.  At  last  they  drew  near  a  scatter- 
ing settlement  of  low  brown  houses.   Near  these 


ONE   LOVER  THE   LESS  17 

was  a  cubical,  windowless  adobe  building  with  a 
bare  wooden  belfry  atop.  Stuck  up  apparently 
without  purpose  in  the  sand  were  several  gaunt 
black  wooden  crosses. 

Thus  they  came  riding  into  San  Rafael  of  the 
Penitentes. 


II 

A   GENUINE    ZURBURAN 

THE  young  man  who  had  so  unexpectedly, 
through  the  loan  of  his  horse  to  aid  a  girl 
in  distress,  become  witness  to  a  murder, 
found  plenty  to  think  of  as  he  continued  his  way 
down  towards  the  line  of  civilization,  where  the 
railroad  runs  through  the  Valley.  His  horse, 
even  after  a  rest,  was  tired  from  its  extraordinary 
exertion,  and  moved  along  slowly  through  the 
heat.  This  was  now  so  great  as  to  be  almost  un- 
bearable; and  the  rider  hailed  with  satisfaction 
the  sight  of  a  village  shaping  itself  tremulously 
in  the  distance.  He  had,  to  be  sure,  rashly  given 
his  word  not  to  speak  of  the  tragedy  he  had  seen; 
but  he  was  rilled  with  curiosity  as  to  one  or  two 
of  the  actors  in  it;  and  besides,  this  cluster  of 
brownish  houses  he  was  coming  to  must  be  An- 
tonito,  where  he  could  find  shade  and  shelter. 

After  traversing  what  seemed  a  very  long  dis- 
tance farther  after  the  first  sight  of  the  village, 
he  finally  arrived  at  it.  One  or  two  large  adobe 
dwellings  built  round  courts,  a  handful  of  smaller 
adobe  houses  facing  a  deserted  dusty-white 
street,  one  or  two  wooden  buildings,  and  the 
church  made  up  the  place.  The  church,  however, 

18 


A    GENUINE   ZURBURAN  19 

— the  most  pretentious  one,  as  he  afterwards 
learned,  in  the  whole  Valley — had  a  certain 
quaint  and  dignified  prettiness,  and  a  restful 
color,  that  made  it  perhaps  the  one  pleasing  ob- 
ject in  the  bleak  miles  of  ugliness;  and  moreover 
it  was  flanked  by  a  cool-looking  and  inviting 
priest's  house,  which  gave  upon  a  garden,  the 
one  spot  of  green  in  the  landscape. 

With  rather  wistful  eyes  the  traveler  passed 
this  pleasant  place,  and  drawing  up  some  dis- 
tance farther  along  the  street  at  a  disreputable 
two-story  wooden  house,  which  bore  the  faded 
inscription  "Antonito  Hotel,"  he  dismounted.  A 
slouchy,  fat  individual,  with  one  eye,  appeared  at 
the  open  door,  and  after  taking  a  black  briar 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  said,  choking  a  little:  "Are 
you  lookin'  for  me?      Want  a  room?" 

"I  don't  think  I  care  about  a  room,  thank 
you.  I  should  like  something  cool  and  long  to 
drink,  and  you  might  put  my  horse  somewhere 
in  the  shade,  if  there's  any  spare  time  before  the 
train." 

"Before  the  train?"  wheezed  the  little  fat  man. 

"The  Denver  train." 

"The  up  train's  gone.  No  other  one  till  to- 
morrow.   I  can  give  you  a  room  for  the  night." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  the  stranger,  rather 
sharply.  "I'll  go  on  to  La  Jara  when  it  gets 
cooler.  But  you  can  put  up  the  horse  for  a 
while,  and  I'll  come  inside  in  the  shade." 


20      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

He  sat  down  and  fanned  himself  with  his  hat 
in  the  dingy  room  where  the  bar  was. 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  as  the  landlord 
limped  about  mixing  and  bringing  him  his  drink, 
which  was  long  but  not  very  cool,  "there's  some 
good  luck  in  every  chance.  I  can  go  and  see 
that  picture  at  the  priest's  house — that's  here, 
isn't  it?  The  Zurburan.  And  maybe  the  Father'll 
tell  me  something  about  the  Penitentes." 

The  landlord  had  just  dropped  a  large  heavy 
book  on  the  table  in  front  of  his  guest,  and  after 
relighting  his  black  pipe,  he  opened  it  and 
pointed  with  one  fat  finger,  saying:  "What  do 
you  want  to  know  about  the  Penitentes?" 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  book  at  the 
place  indicated  and  then  up  at  the  one  bleary 
eye  of  the  hotel-keeper,  which  was  fixed  on  him. 

"What's  this  got  to  do  with  them?"  he  asked. 

"Write  your  name,  that's  all.  Visitors'  book." 

The  young  man  took  the  pen  offered  him  and 
wrote  splutteringly,  "Deloss  Devlin,"  while  the 
other  continued:  "I  reckon  you  won't  find  out 
much  about  them  from  old  Emanuele.  'Tain't 
only  that  most  generally  he  faints  when  he  talks, 
but  I  don't  believe  he's  tellin'  many  tales  to 
strangers.  You  see,  some  folks  'a'  got  a  kind  of 
idea  their  a-goin'  to  try  their  tricks  again  this 
fall,  sence  there's  ben  a  change  of  sheriffs,  and 
most  of  the  men,  who  could  help  form  a  posse, 
out  of  the  Valley,  at  Cripple  Creek;  only  they'd 


A    GENUINE    ZURBURAN  21 

ought  to  get  the  Mormons  to  run  them  out,  if 
they  do  try  any  of  their  funny  business.  The 
Saints  is  the  best  of  the  two  in  my  opinion,  and 
that  ain't  sayin'  much." 

"What  do  you  call  their  funny  business?" 
asked  Devlin. 

"Ah,"  wheezed  the  landlord,  "you'd  ought  er 
heard  Jerry  Somerson  tell  his  tales  about  'em. 
Folks  used  to  say  he'd  seen  one  o'  their  crucifix- 
ions." 

"One  of  their  what!"  cried  Devlin. 

"Their  crucifixions.  They  ain't  had  one  now 
fer  some  time,  but  I  reckon  they're  arranging  it 
for  this  season,  'cause  I  seen  that  priest  o'  theirs 
down  here  to-day — " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  he — "  began  the 
other.     "Why,  whom  do  they  crucify?" 

"Oh,  one  of  their  own  lot.  Best  thing  to  do's 
to  let  'em  kill  themselves  off  that  way,  I  always 
says.  I  ain't  got  no  religion  myself  and  so  I 
don't  get  excited  about  it.  But  there  is  folks 
that  thinks  it's  very  disgustin'." 

"It's  shameful!  Do  you  mean  to  say  noth- 
ing's done  to  stop  it?  In  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, in  America!  Does  the  priest  here,  you  say, 
support  it?" 

"Ah,  he's  a  poor  sort  of  a  creature,"  answered 
the  landlord;  "I  don't  go  much  for  priests  my- 
self, anyway,  though  I  reckon  some  of  'em  is  all 
right;  but  this  here  old  Emanuele  is  kind  o* 


22      THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

daffy  now,  and  ain't  much  better  himself  than 
the  Penitentes;  and  they're  the  lowest  trash  in 
the  whole  San  Luis  Valley.  I  wouldn't  advise 
you  to  say  nothin'  to  him  about  it." 

"It  ought  to  be  stopped,"  exclaimed  Devlin 
fervently. 

"Well,  I  guess  nothin'  short  o'  havin'  some 
soldiers  down  here'd  stop  'em;  there  was  some 
talk  of  that  once,  awhile  ago  when  they  used  to 
be  worse  than  what  they  are  now.  Folks  is 
kinder  losin'  interest  in  'em  lately."  The  land- 
lord ended  in  a  fit  of  smothered  coughing,  and 
recovering,  sucked  at  his  pipe,  which  had  again 
gone  out. 

"Then  you  tell  me  about  them,"  suggested 
Devlin;  "if  the  priest  won't.    Who  are  they?" 

The  other  slowly  lighted  his  pipe  again  and 
said:  "They  ain't  much  to  tell's  I  knows  of. 
Folks  say  they  come  up  here  from  Mexico 
as  long  ago  as  before  the  Mexican  War,  and 
they're  the  only  ones  I  know  of  anywheres  round 
these  parts;  so  I  guess  it's  true  all  right.  They're 
peaceable  citizens  enough,  not  harmin'  nobody 
except  themselves.  Now  and  then  they  turn  in 
and  have  one  o'  these  revivals  and  crucify  some- 
one, and  I  reckon  that's  about  all  there  is  to  it." 

"You're  sure  they  do  it? — crucify,  I  mean," 
persisted  Devlin. 

"O  yes.  I  guess  they  ain't  no  doubts  of 
that." 


A    GENUINE    ZURBURAN  23 

"And  they're  going  to  do  it  this  year?  When's 
the  time  for  it?     Soon?" 

At  this  juncture  a  rough-looking  man  in  shaps 
came  noisily  into  the  room  and  asked  for 
whisky. 

"As  fer  whether  they  will  or  not,  I  guess  only 
themselves  knows,  and  old  Emanuele,"  replied 
the  hotel-keeper,  getting  up  and  limping  behind 
the  bar;  "and  the  day  fer  it  comes  along  some- 
wheres  next  month  or  maybe  the  month  after." 

"What's  that?"  demanded  the  new-comer 
roughly,  eyeing  Devlin. 

"The  Penitentes,"  replied  the  landlord. 

"Are  they  up  to  their  damn  tricks  again?" 
said  the  man  nonchalantly. 

Devlin  rose. 

"I'll  be  back  for  my  horse,"  he  said,  starting 
out. 

"You  won't  get  no  satisfaction,"  called  the 
landlord  after  him,  divining  his  destination. 

He  had  divined  right.  Devlin  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  church,  keeping  in  the  shade;  and 
turned  in  through  the  neat  but  rather  arid  gar- 
den. He  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  priest's 
house.  It  was  presently  opened  by  a  gaunt 
elderly  woman,  who  looked  him  over  sharply. 

"Might  I  see  Father  Emanuele?"  he  asked. 

"What  about?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  he  would  show  me  his 
famous  painting,"  he  replied  tentatively. 


24      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

With  pursed  lips  she  glared  at  him  for  a  few 
moments. 

"I'll  ask  him,"  she  then  said;  "he's  ill,  and  I 
don't  like  to  have  him  disturbed  for  nothing;" 
and  she  closed  the  door  in  his  face. 

A  minute  later  she  opened  it  again,  saying: 
"You  may  come  in;  but  don't  stay  too  long." 

She  opened  another  door  on  her  right.  Dev- 
lin went  into  a  large,  dim,  but  comfortable  look- 
ing room,  where  a  fat,  soft-looking  priest  in  a 
black  robe  stood  awaiting  him. 

"You  have  come,"  he  began  in  a  thick,  tremul- 
ous voice,  "to  see  the  famous  picture.  Here  it 
is."  He  pointed  to  a  large,  dingy  painting  in  a 
heavy,  tarnished  gold  frame,  which  hung  on  the 
wall.  "It  came  from  Mexico  many  years  ago; 
and  it  is  a  genuine  Zurburan,  signed."  His 
breath  seemed  to  fail  him,  and  he  sat  down  in  a 
large  arm  chair,  gasping  and  holding  his  hand 
over  his  heart. 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  he  said,  when  he  re- 
covered his  breath;  "I  am  not  very  well.  This 
morning  I  had  a  very  bad  attack,  and  my  duties 
are  so  heavy." 

Devlin  mumbled  some  words  of  sympathy; 
and  stared  at  the  faded  painting,  which,  Zur- 
buran though  it  might  be,  was  not  only  very 
hard  to  make  out,  but  seemed  scarcely  worth  the 
effort. 

"I  suppose  it  ought  properly  to  hang  in  the 


A    GENUINE    ZURBURAN  2$ 

church,"  went  on  the  priest;  "but  it  always  has 
hung  here,  and  I  hate  to  change  it.  It  is  so  val- 
uable, too." 

"You  dislike  giving  up  old  customs,"  ven- 
tured Devlin,  turning  to  him;  "I  am  so  much  in- 
terested in  the  Penitentes." 

"Hey?"  asked  Father  Emanuele  blankly. 

"I  say,  speaking  of  old  customs,  I  am  so  much 
interested  in  what  I  hear  of  the  Penitentes  of  San 
Rafael.  I  happened  to  meet  their  oriest  this 
morning." 

"Father  Maria  de  Jesus  is  a  very  estimable  and 
pious  man,"  said  the  other. 

'So  he  seemed.  They  are  a  curious  people, 
are  they  not?  The  Penitentes?  With  some  pe- 
culiar rites  of  their  own?" 

The  priest  stared  at  him  vaguely,  and  then  re- 
plied: "Oh,  yes,  yes;  they  are  a  simple  folk,  part- 
ly Indian.  I  suppose  their  life  is  different  from 
that  of  most  of  us;  very  pious,  though,  and 
holy." 

Just  as  Devlin  was  about  to  try  another  at- 
tack the  priest  said  suddenly:  "You  are  a  Cath- 
olic?" 

"No,"  replied  Devlin,  and  added,  as  his  host 
shook  his  head  sadly,  "but  I  have  the  greatest 
admiration  for  the  Catholic  Church  in  general." 

"I  wish  you  were  to  remain  here  some  time," 
said  Emanuele,  "that  I  might  have  the  honor  to 
convert  you." 


26      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Devlin  smiled 

Again  the  sallow  face  of  the  priest  grew  paler; 
with  a  gasp  he  put  his  left  hand  over  his  heart, 
and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  stretched  out  his 
other  ambiguously. 

Devlin  seized  the  opportunity  to  take  the 
outstretched  hand,  saying  he  must  go.  As  he 
thanked  him  for  the  chance  to  see  the  painting, 
Emanuele  seemed  to  revive  somewhat,  and  at- 
tempted to  rise;  but  his  visitor  last  saw  him  sink- 
ing back  once  more  into  his  chair. 

In  the  hall  he  caught  sight  of  the  elderly  female 
hovering  about  darkly,  and  as  he  went  out,  saw 
her  reopen  the  door  of  the  room  he  had  left  and 
go  in. 

He  returned  to  the  hotel  again,  where  he 
found  Wezel  ministering  in  the  bar  to  half  a 
dozen  of  the  natives  of  Antonito.  As  the  after- 
noon was  now  beginning  to  be  cooler,  he  asked 
to  have  his  horse;  and  Wezel,  who  was  his  own 
hostler  as  well  as  his  own  bartender,  soon  found 
a  chance  to  bring  the  animal  round  to  the  door. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  didn't  get  much  satisfac- 
tion from  the  old  man,"  he  said,  grinning,  as  he 
held  the  horse. 

Devlin  shook  his  head. 

"The  only  way  to  stop  'em'd  be  to  get  the  blue- 
coats  down  here  and  clean  'em  out,"  said  Wezel; 
"unless  you  could  rouse  up  the  Saints  to  do  it." 


Ill 

AT   SAN    RAFAEL 

AS  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  and  Dolores  on 
the  donkey  rode  up  the  gentle  incline, 
L  leading  to  San  Rafael,  the  priest,  hang- 
ing his  rosary  through  his  rope  girdle,  half  turned 
to  the  girl  and  said:  "I  will  get  Panchita  to  take 
you  in.  To  be  sure,  she  has  Pasco  there ;  but  he 
is  a  quiet  fellow  and  her  house  is  big.  I  trust  you 
wili  decide  to  stay  among  us  here.  We  are  a  quiet 
people;  we  have  no  excitements  like  those  in  the 
plain, — like  the  one  to-day,  for  instance.  All 
the  force  of  our  feelings  we  put  into  our  religion, 
giving  it  to  God  and  His  Mother.  That  man- 
tilla of  yours  you  will  offer  to  San  Rafael  for  his 
altar,  will  you  not?  You  can't  wear  it,  and  it 
would  look  beautiful  there,  and  he  will  be  so 
pleased." 

She  nodded.     "If  you  wish,"  she  said. 

When  they  were  near  the  brown  church  he 
turned  the  donkey  on  to  the  open.  Coiled  up 
on  the  ground  a  man  was  lying  in  the  sun  there. 
He  was  the  only  person  visible;  till  from  the 
nearest  house,  a  wider  one  than  most  of  them, 
came  hurrying  a  withered  woman  in  a  draggled 
gown. 

Putting  one  rough  hand  on    the    donkey's 

27 


28      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

neck,  and  looking  up  with  bleary,  eager  old  eyes, 
"What  news?"  asked  she.  "Does  he  say  yes? 
Shall  we  have  our  fete?" 

"All  in  God's  good  time,  Oestocris,"  replied 
the  priest.  "See  this  young  woman.  I  have 
brought  her  here  to  stay  with  us." 

The  old  woman  looked  so  searchingly  at  Do- 
lores that  she  colored  under  her  dark  skin. 

"Who  is  she?     She's  a  good  Catholic?" 

"O!"  cried  the  priest  deprecatingly.  "Now, 
Oestocris!  Would  I  bring  a  heretic  among  us? 
Or  a  Saint?" 

"What's  her  name?"  asked  Oestocris  sharply. 

"Lola,"  ventured  Dolores. 

"Lola,  aha!"  repeated  the  old  woman;  and 
then  turning  her  eyes  again  to  the  Father,  "and 
we  shall  have  it?" 

"To-morrow  you  shall  hear  all  about  it,"  re- 
plied he,  clucking  to  his  donkey. 

"To-morrow!"  jeered  the  old  dame  mocking- 
ly.    "Where  you  going  now?" 

"To  my  house,  of  course." 

"Yes;  to  your  house,"  she  mutterea.  "You 
mean  you  are  going  to  tell  Cristoke  all  about 
everything." 

"Cristoke  shall  hear  nothing  any  sooner  than 
you,"  he  reassured  her. 

"Where's  that  girl  going  to  stay?"  she  called 
after  him. 

"With  Panchita,"  called  back  the  priest. 


AT   SAN    RAFAEL  29 

Mumbling  crossly,  the  old  creature  hobbled 
back  with  dragging  skirt  to  her  house. 

At  the  next  house  a  girl  came  out  into  the 
porch  and  stood  looking  at  them.  While  Do- 
lores was  staring  back  at  this  girl,  who  wore  a 
red  waist,  the  priest  got  off  and  took  the  bridle 
to  lead  by.  At  another  house  a  little  dog  was 
fast  asleep  in  front  of  two  old  men  who  lay 
back  against  the  wall,  feeling  the  sun  on  their 
eyelids. 

All  three  awoke  at  once.  As  the  dog  stood 
wagging  all  over  and  making  an  internal  noise 
like  muffled  growling,  one  of  the  old  men  limped 
briskly  forward,  and  the  other  followed. 

"God  and  the  Archangel  have  prospered  you 
in  your  mission,  Father  Chucho?"  wheezed  the 
first  old  man. 

The  other  one  stared  at  Dolores. 

"I  trust  they  have,  Cristoke,"  said  the  priest. 
"But  I  have  promised  Oestocris  to  tell  nobody 
about  it  till  to-morrow.  So  go  back  to  your 
prayers." 

Sunday  morning  Dolores  was  hysterical.  She 
lay  on  her  bed  sobbing;  and  when  Panchita  came 
and  said  kindly,  "Come,  Lola,  the  bell  is  ringing 
for  mass,"  she  only  sobbed  the  more. 

"Lola,"  urged  Panchita,  shaking  her  gently 
by  the  shoulder. 

Dolores,  sitting  up  in  bed,  began  to  laugh 
nervously  in  her  hostess's  face. 


30      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Come,  we  must  hurry,"  she  repeated. 

"I  won't  go,"  choked  Dolores  in  the  middle  of 
a  laugh. 

Panchita's  hand  dropped  from  the  girl's 
shoulder;  and  Dolores  buried  her  face  and  shook 
with  sobs.  The  fat  Panchita,  dazed,  retreated 
from  the  dark  little  room.  In  the  porch  she 
found  her  son  Pasco,  patiently  waiting.  He 
had  on  white  cotton  trousers  and  a  rather  clean 
blue  flannel  shirt.     His  head  and  feet  were  bare. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  that  girl," 
said  his  mother  despairingly. 

Pasco  only  looked  at  her  in  impassive  silence. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  speak  to  the  Father  and 
send  him  down  here  to  get  her.     Come  on." 

They  met  the  priest  at  the  church  door. 
While  Panchita  explained,  Pasco  stared  solemn- 
ly at  the  two  of  them. 

"Well,  let  her  be,"  said  Father  Maria  de  Jesus. 
"She's  excited  and  sick,  poor  girl!" 

"But,  Father,  miss  mass!"  Panchita  was  hor- 
rified; and  even  Pasco's  placid  eyes  seemed  to 
grow  intense. 

"She  shall  confess  it  to  me  to-morrow,"  he 
replied  indulgently;  "and  you  know  God  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin  are  there  with  her  in  your  house 
as  well  as  in  the  church  with  us.  People  from 
the  plain  lose  control  of  themselves  more  than 
we  do;  and  we  must  make  allowances." 


AT   SAN    RAFAEL  31 

But  Panchita  took  early  occasion  after  church 
to  warn  her  son  that  that  girl  could  not  be  a 
very  good  Catholic  and  that  they  should  have 
to  be  careful.  To  which  Pasco  made  no  verbal 
reply. 

Mass  was  never  said  in  the  Penitente  church 
that  all  the  forty-odd  inhabitants  of  San  Rafael, 
down  to  the  youngest  naked  baby,  were  not 
there.  This  morning  only  Dolores  was  absent. 
The  windowless  adobe  walls  were  hung  with  the 
cheapest  shiny  chromo  pictures  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  the  Infant  Jesus,  Christ  showing  his 
bleeding  heart,  and  divers  Saints.  On  the  white 
painted  altar  was  already  spread  the  white  man- 
tilla; on  it  stood  two  red  pottery  jugs  filled  with 
green  leaves;  and  above  the  crucifix  with  its  life- 
sized  waxen  corpus  hung  San  Rafael  in  oils,  with 
tremendous  crude  blue  and  yellow  wings,  and 
holding  a  cross. 

Before  the  sermon  the  small  boy  in  scarlet  who 
served  mass,  stepped  down  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  railless  chancel;  and  Father  Maria  de  Jesus 
in  his  grass-green  chasuble,  after  kissing  the 
stole,  put  it  on.  Then  all  the  Penitentes  rising 
made  the  sign,  and  muttered  the  invocation  in 
the  same  breath  with  him. 

He  waited  till  they  were  again  seated  with 
their  eyes  fixed  on  him,  when,  looking  over  the 
heads  first  of  the  man  on  one  side,  then  of  the 
woman  on  the  other,  then  out  the  open  door  to 


32       THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

the  mountains  in  the  blue  distance,  he  began  his 
sermon: 

"Penitentes,  it  is  well  known  to  all  of  us,  how 
when  our  fathers  left  Mexico  and  set  out  into 
the  wilderness  to  find  a  land  for  themselves,  San 
Rafael  going  before  them  in  a  cloud,  led  the  way 
here.  That  was  before  any  of  us  was  born;  but 
I  have  heard  the  story  from  those  who  followed 
our  patron  through  the  desert  from  Santa  Fe, 
and  so  have  one  or  two  of  you."  (All  the  wom- 
en looked  at  Oestocris,  and  the  men  at  Cris- 
toke.)  'They  themselves  are  all  dead  long  ago. 
When  they  arrived  at  this  place,  which  the 
Blessed  Virgin  had  promised  them  in  a  vision, 
San  Rafael  manifested  himself  to  them  in  human 
form,  and  crucified  himself  on  this  very  spot; 
where  they  built  this  church  to  mark  and  to 
memorize  the  miracle.  Without  windows  they 
built  it,  for  the  Lord  is  the  light  of  it. 

"His  pious  followers  were  transported  with  joy 
at  the  Archangel's  goodness  and  condescension 
in  thus  giving  himself  to-  be  an  expiation  for  their 
sins,  in  imitation  of  our  most  Blessed  Lord;  and 
they  made  a  perpetual  vow  to  celebrate  forever 
the  anniversary  of  this  sacrifice.  This  vow  of 
theirs,  solemnly  made  to  San  Rafael  and  to  God, 
is  binding  on  us. 

"In  those  happy,  innocent  days  when  the  Val- 
ley was  as  God  made  it,  before  the  railroad  came 
and  it  was  full  of  whites  and  Saints  and  sinners 


AT  SAN   RAFAEL  33 

of  all  kinds,  the  celebration  was  kept  every  year. 
I  can  remember,  when  I  was  a  child,  twenty 
crosses  and  more  erected  here,  round  about  this 
church,  each  one  marking  the  sacred  spot  of  one 
of  these  pious  sacrifices.  Now  how  many  are 
there?  Six!  Six  in  all;  and  some  of  those  rep- 
resent a  good  work  undertaken,  but  unfortunate- 
ly never  ended. 

"Penitentes,  it  is  three  years  since  we  have 
kept  our  own  special,  holy  fete  of  San  Rafael, — 
since  we  have  kept  it  fittingly  and  to  the  honor 
and  glory  of  God,  as  a  humble  emulation  of  the 
sacrifice  of  His  Son  and  as  an  expiation  of  sin. 
I  know  we  are  a  good  people;  I  know  that  in 
God's  eyes  we  are  the  salt  of  this  Valley;  but  I 
know  there  is  wickedness  among  us,  too.  Wick- 
edness that  I  alone  do  know;  for  it  has  been  con- 
fessed to  me  as  your  Father.  And  as  for  the 
Valley  below  us,  we  all  know  what  a  den  of  cor- 
ruption that  is.  There  are  the  two  cities  of  the 
infidel  'Saints,'  as  they  call  themselves, — new 
cities  of  the  plain;  and  even  among  those  that 
profess  to  be  Catholic  Christians  there  is  no  end 
of  their  murder  and  greed  and  adultery  and  lying 
and  horse-stealing  and  gambling. 

"And  if  we  are  better  than  they,  is  that  any 
reason  for  us  to  set  ourselves  up  on  our  hill  and 
wait  for  the  wrath  of  God  to  destroy  them?  No! 
If  there  should  come  a  cyclone  to-morrow  and 
root  up  Ephraim  and  Manassa,  and  blow  down 


34      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Antonito  and  La  Jara,  would  that  be  a  cause  of 
rejoicing  to  us?  No;  a  cause  of  sorrow.  Noah 
went  into  his  ark  when  the  flood  came,  and  took 
in  his  wife  and  family  and  his  oxen  and  mules 
and  dogs;  and  then  he  locked  the  door  on  the 
poor  drenched  sinners  outside  crying  to  him  to 
save  them.  But  Noah  was  not  a  Catholic.  San 
Rafael  had  never  led  him  through  the  desert 
from  Mexico.  That  was  before  God  had  taught 
men  Christian  charity,  and  put  the  light  of  Christ 
before  them,  and  showed  them  how  to  save  this 
wicked  world;  before  He  had  commanded  us  to 
go  and  do  likewise  in  memory  of  Him. 

"Besides,  there  is  a  sin  of  our  own  that  I  will 
tell  you  of, — not  a  private  sin,  but  an  open,  pub- 
lic one.  God  has  led  us  into  a  paradise  and  we 
neglect  it.  You  are  lazy,  Penitentes.  Every 
one  sees  it.  The  heretic  mocks  us!  You  have 
good  lands  that  God  gave  you,  and  yet  where  is 
this  summer's  crop?  Down  in  the  plain  the 
heathen  have  fields  of  potatoes  and  alfalfa,  and 
we  here  have  nothing. 

"God  does  not  like  this,  brothers;  and  it  is  one 
of  the  things  we  have  to  expiate.  But  we  have 
not  only  to  expiate  it;  we  have  to  remedy  it.  So, 
I  tell  you  all,  go  to  work  to-morrow  and  give  up 
lying  in  the  sun  all  day;  and  when  our  fete  ar- 
rives God  and  San  Rafael  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
will  aid  us,  and  we  will  keep  the  holy  feast  in 
their  honor,  which  we  were  forced  to  give  up  last 
year." 


AT   SAN    RAFAEL  35 

He  stood  looking  at  them  a  moment.  Then 
he  lifted  his  arm  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
He  turned  again  to  the  altar  with  its  tears  of 
yellow  candle  flame,  and  continued  mass. 

The  ceremony  finished,  the  Penitentes  silently 
filed  out  into  the  brilliant  sunshine.  Once  out 
of  doors,  they  began  to  talk  glibly  enough,  form- 
ing into  groups  near  the  church  door.  As  soon 
as  the  father  came  out  in  his  brown  robe  they 
gathered  about  him  and  several  voices  at  once 
asked  him,  "Who  is  it  to  be,  Father?" 

Smiling,  he  shook  his  head. 

"Who  will  be  the  Christ,  Father?"  cried  Oes- 
tocris  shrilly. 

At  her,  too,  he  smiled  enigmatically,  and  re- 
plied, "God  will  tell  us." 

Then  glancing  round  the  group  he  said,  with 
a  serious  look  in  his  black  eyes:  "Remember, 
my  children,  what  I  told  you  in  there  about  your 
fields.  We  cannot  have  our  neighbors  making 
fun  of  our  sloth.  Rest  to-day,  for  it  is  the  Sab- 
bath. But  to-morrow  no  more  laziness.  If  you 
are  not  all  in  the  fields,  except  those  who  have 
other  necessary  work,  I  will  put  off  the  festival 
till  next  year." 

With  another  glance  round  the  circle  of  sober 
faces,  stepping  out  from  among  them,  he  started 
towards  his  house.  They  fell  to  talking  again; 
but  Oestocris  and  the  limping  old  Cristoke  fol- 
lowed him.     Each  took  one  of  his  arms  in  its 


36      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN  RAFAEL 

rough  loose  sleeve,  and  each  turned  a  jealous  old 
eagle-like  face  to  him. 

"We'll  remember,  Father,"  began  the  old 
crone,  wheedlingly,  trying  to  soften  her  sharp 
voice,  "I'll  take  out  a  hoe  myself  to-morrow  and 
poke  among  the  weeds  as  hard  as  I'm  able;  I'll 
set  my  boy  Paez  to  sharpen  the  hoe  this  after- 
noon." 

"To-morrow,  you  mean,  Oestocris,"  growled 
the  old  man  hoarsely;  "didn't  Father  Chucho 
say  no  work  was  to  be  done  on  the  Sabbath? 
And  God  told  him  to  say  so." 

"That  work  itself  is  holy,"  retorted  old  Oes- 
tocris, "because  Father  Chucho  preached  it  to 
us.  But  even  if  we  don't  begin  till  to-morrow  I 
expect  we'll  start  before  you  get  your  old  bones 
to  moving." 

"Yes,"  interposed  the  priest,  soothingly;  "we 
must  all  get  our  crops  out.  I  promised  Father 
Emanuele  not  to*  delay  it  any  longer.  He 
blamed  me  for  not  having  got  at  it  already." 

"Emanuele  has  no  business  to  blame  you," 
cried  the  old  woman  angrily. 

"Hush,"  reproved  he,  "don't  say  that." 

"I  will  say,"  she  persisted,  "that  he  would  do 
very  well  to  spend  his  time  in  as  many  holy  deeds 
as  you  do.  Tell  me,  Father,"  she  wheedled, 
"who  is  to  be  our  Christ." 

"I  told  you,"  he  insisted,  "that  I  don't  know. 
God  will  tell  us.     We  must  pray  to  Him  to 


AT   SAN    RAFAEL  37 

quicken  our  eyes.  But  I  will  say  to  you  two/' 
he  went  on,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the 
eager,  fiercely-moulded  old  faces,  "that  in  about 
four  days  we  shall  invoke  the  Holy  Spirit  to 
come  down  upon  us  and  point  out  the  chosen 
one.  Friday,  I  think, — when  we  are  fasting  and 
therefore  clear-sighted. " 


IV 

A    PROMISE    OF    HELP 

D'EVLIN  had  been  much  impressed  not 
only  by  what  he  had  been  able  to 
learn  about  the  Penitentes,  but  also 
by  the  horrors  that  his  imagination  led  him 
to  build  on  his  rather  scant  knowledge;  and 
they  continued  to  occupy  his  thoughts, 
both  on  his  ride  from  Antonito  to  La  Jara, 
and  largely  for  some  time  after.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  crime  greater  than  that  of  the  mis- 
guided people  themselves  for  others  more  en- 
lightened to  allow  such  practices  as  theirs  to  go 
on;  and  he  before  very  long  decided  that  some 
duty  in  the  matter  was  his,  and  resolved  to  do 
what  he  could  to  fulfil  it.  Wezel's  suggestions 
about  soldiers  had  not  much  impressed  him. 
Filled  as  he  always  had  been  with  a  great  respect 
and  admiration  for  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
a  respect  unshaken  even  by  the  sight  of  such  in- 
effectual workers  in  it  as  Father  Emanuele,  he 
felt  that  it  lay  with  that  tremendous  institution 
to  cleanse  itself  of  the  blot  on  its  fair  escutcheon; 
which,  besides,  he  felt  it  could  do  more  efficiently 
and  more  gently  perhaps  than  the  strong  arm  of 
the  military. 

With  this  idea  still  strong  in  his  mind,  he  con- 

38 


A    PROMISE    OF    HELP  39 

trived  soon  after  his  arrival  at  Denver  to  procure 
a  letter  to  the  principal  of  the  Jesuit  College 
there. 

The  college,  a  heavily  impressive  building, 
stands  in  large  grounds,  the  front  part  of  them 
being  laid  out  in  a  fair  garden,  the  side  in  a 
great  bare  field,  with  football  goals  at  its  farther 
end.  The  front  door  sprung  open  at  once  on 
Devlin's  ringing,  and  a  severe  serving  man  in 
black  took  his  card  and  his  letter,  and  ushering 
him  into  a  parlor,  said  he  would  carry  them  to 
Father  Mansifee.  It  was  a  huge,  gaunt  room, 
with  neatly  drawn  shades.  On  the  four  walls 
hung  four  paintings,) — one  an  excellent  copy  of 
Murillo's  Immaculate  Conception,  the  others 
portraits  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  of  the  suave  and 
genial  Pius  Ninth,  and  of  the  kindly  and  beauti- 
ful statesman,  Leo  the  Thirteenth.,  In  a  few 
minutes  the  principal  came  in.  A  tall,  thin  man, 
with  a  keenly  intellectual  and  ascetic  face,  he  was 
stamped  clearly  gentleman  and  man  of  the  world. 
In  a  voice  which  rang  peculiarly  true,  he  said  a 
few  formal  words  of  greeting. 

Devlin  at  once  jumped  to  his  subject.  "I 
have  come  to  ask  you  to  talk  over  an  important 
matter." 

The  priest's  expression  slightly  changed. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  wished  to  go  over  the 
school,"  he  said.  "If  it  is  business,  may  I  ask 
you  to  come  again?     I  am  very  much  occupied." 


40      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"It  is  not  precisely  business,"  said  the  visitor, 
turning  to  go. 

The  Jesuit  laid  a  hand  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder.  "You  will  excuse  me  I  know.  Come 
to-morrow,  can't  you,  at  three,  and  we'll  have  a 
chance  to  discuss  the  matter.  Is  it  personal? 
No;  then  you'll  not  object  to  a  few  of  my  col- 
leagues being  present." 

Devlin  bowed  at  the  door  of  the  room;  but 
Father  Mansifee  followed  him  out  to  open  the 
front  door  for  him. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  repeated,  "to  be  so  hurried; 
tomorrow  at  three." 

Devlin,  somewhat  uncertain  as  to  whether  or 
not  he  was  prepossessed  by  this  very  business- 
like churchman,  but  with  his  purpose  stronger 
than  ever  in  his  mind,  returned  the  next  day  at 
the  hour  set.  He  was  received  by  the  principal  in 
the  same  gaunt  parlor,  but  this  time  with  a  so- 
ciable air  that  set  him  somewhat  at  his  ease;  al- 
though when  at  the  sounding  of  a  large  gong, 
his  host  conducted  him  through  one  or  two 
long  bare  hallways,  where  he  saw  files  of  boys 
marching  in  the  distance,  he  felt  once  more  out 
of  place. 

The  principal  led  him  into  a  small  room, 
where  there  were  two  other  priests  waiting  for 
them.  They  were  both  in  black  and  smooth- 
shaven,  and  despite  the  individual  diversity  of 
their  faces,  had  the  same  keen,  cleanly,  and  cul- 


A    PROMISE    OF    HELP  41 

tured  look,  and  the  same  quiet  refinement  of 
manner. 

Father  Mansifee  presented  his  young  guest  to 
his  two  associates,  each  of  whom,  as  his  name 
was  mentioned,  rose  and  bowed.  The  one  next 
to  Devlin  shook  his  hand  cordially.  The  intro- 
ductions over,  the  principal  turned  to  Devlin  and 
said:  "If  you  feel  ready  to  broach  the  matter 
you  mentioned,  now,  I  am  sure  these  gentlemen 
will  be  equally  interested  with  myself  in  hearing 
it." 

The  eyes  of  all  three  were  on  the  stranger  as 
he  answered,  hesitating  somewhat  with  embar- 
rassment: "It  may  seem  to  you  presumptuous 
on  my  part,  but  I  feel  sure  you  don't  know, — or 
at  any  rate,  don't  appreciate,  how — to — well, 
to  what  degraded  customs  religion  has  led  some 
of  your  fellow  Catholics  in  this  State." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Father 
Mansifee,  seeing  the  hot  blush  that  spread  over 
the  young  man's  face,  said  courteously:  "You 
are  a  Protestant."  Devlin  nodded.  "I  am  sure 
there  are  some  Protestants  who  would  not  be 
so  kind  as  to  attribute  our  shortcomings  to  our 
ignorance." 

Devlin  gave  him  a  glance  of  gratitude. 

One  of  the  three  Jesuits  assented  in  a  calm, 
smooth  voice: 

"Father  Mansifee  certainly  expresses  the 
pleasure  all  of  us  feel  in  realizing  that  the  time 


42      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

has  come  when  those  who  have  fault  to  find  with 
our  Church,  do  so  as  man  to  man,  whereas  they 
often  used  to  resort  to  the  press.  It  undoubted- 
ly makes  us  quite  as  anxious  to  redress  any 
grievances  that  may  occur  in  the  merely  human 
management  of  any  institution  no  matter  how 
sacred." 

The  flush  faded  from  the  young  man's  face  as 
he  answered  with  a  great  deal  of  forceful  sincer- 
ity: "It  is  only  because  I  respect  your  Church 
so  much  that  I  came  to  you, — because  I  feel  that 
you  can  stop  it.  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know 
that  the  Penitentes  down  in  the  San  Luis  Valley 
are  preparing  to  have  another  crucifixion." 

There  was  again  a  momentary  pause. 

"I  have  heard  of  the  Penitentes,"  said  one 
of  the  Jesuits. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Father  Mansi- 
fee,  "in  believing  that  this  is  news  to  us.  When 
is  this  crucifixion  to  take  place?" 

"On  San  Rafael's  Day,"  answered  Devlin;  and 
he  went  on  and  told  them  all  he  had  learned 
about  the  matter. 

The  Jesuits  listened  to  his  account  serenely; 
only  interrupting  and  helping  him  out  with  two 
or  three  pertinent  questions. 

"It  is  very  dreadful,"  said  Father  Mansifee, 
shaking  his  head,  when  Devlin  had  finished;  and 
then  added,  "I  can  only  admire  your  judgment 
in  bringing  this  grievance  before  us,  though  I  re- 


A    PROMISE    OF    HELP  43 

gret  that  it  should  need  to  be  done  by  a  person 
outside  the  Church.  But  it  would  certainly 
be  a  hideous  mockery,  and  an  impossibility,  that 
the  one  institution  which  has  outlived  the  cen- 
turies and  has  always  been  in  the  fore-front  of 
modern  thought,  should  permit  such  a  blasphem- 
ous outrage  of  one  of  its  most  sacred  tenets 
to  continue,  once  it  has  been  brought  to  its 
notice.  But  though  the  end  is  obvious,  the 
means  require  careful  thought.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  you  know,  we  have  no  jurisdiction  in  such 
matters.  Only  the  bishop  can  order  it  stopped; 
and  knowing,  as  I  do,  the  bigotry  and  lawless- 
ness of  the  Penitentes,  I  doubt  if  they  would 
obey  him.  We  can,  of  course,  use  our  influence 
to  help.  Your  friend  Wezel  thinks,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  the  army  should  be  called  upon  to 
interfere.  Undoubtedly  he  knows  more  about 
the  Penitentes  than  either  you  or  we,  being  on 
or  near  the  spot." 

One  of  the  others,  however,  suggested:  "An 
ignorant  person  on  the  spot  may  probably  know 
less  than  an  educated  man  at  a  distance." 

"Quite  true/'  agreed  Father  Mansifee. 
"What  is  best  of  all  is  an  educated  man  on  the 
spot.  But  nevertheless  I  think  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  Mr.  Wezel's  suggestion.  Beyond  a 
doubt,  these  poor  people  are  out  of  their  heads 
with  religious  mania,  and  the  clearest  seeing  and 
most  persuasive  of  preachers    might    argue    in 


44      THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

vain.  He  might  of  course  prevent  the  occur- 
rence of  their  crucifixion  while  he  remained 
among  them;  but  probably  his  influence  would 
end  with  his  departure.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
body  of  troops  who  could  be  so  timed  as  to  ar- 
rive on  the  scene  and  take  them  red-handed  in 
the  act,  would  be  justified,  I  suppose,  in  arrest- 
ing all  those  implicated;  and  in  the  end  they 
might  either  be  committed  to  some  asylum,  or 
else  scattered  here  and  there  in  small  groups, 
where  their  influence  would  be  harmless." 

"The  greatest  difficulty,"  put  in  one  of  the 
party,  "would  be  to  have  the  movements  of  a 
body  of  troops  so  nicely  timed." 

Everyone  smiled. 

"Perhaps  the  movements  of  our  army  are  not 
governed  with  such  diplomatic  precision,"  ad- 
mitted the  principal;  and  turning  to  Devlin,  he 
continued;  "I  do  not  want  you  to  think  we 
are  trying  to  avoid  the  responsibility,  which  I 
ought  to  say  we  thank  you  for  putting  upon  us. 
I  assure  you  we  shall  look  into  the  matter  and  do 
not  mean  to  shirk  it.  I  shall  speak  to  the  pro- 
vincial about  it  and  consult  him  as  to  the 
propriety  of  telling  Colonel  Lawless.  But,  I 
think,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  smile,  "that  even 
if  the  main  work  is  handed  over  to  the  military 
arm  we  shall  be  represented  also  in  the  field." 

"San  Rafael's  Day  is  not  for  some  time  yet,  I 
believe,"  said  Devlin. 


A    PROMISE    OF    HELP  45 

"Next  month,"  responded  the  Jesuit. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  rose,  and  so  did  all  the 
others.  They  stood  silent  while  he  said  to  his 
guest,  "I  must  say  once  more  how  much  we  all 
thank  you.  And  when  at  last  this  unfortunate 
superstition  is  stamped  out  along  with  others 
brought  originally  from  Spain, — stamped  out,  I 
may  add,  perhaps  through  the  efforts  of  that 
great  religious  army  which  also  owes  its  origin 
to  Spain, — then  you  will  be  justified  in  feeling 
proud  of  your  part  in  the  matter.  And,"  he 
added,  ''let  me  express  for  us  all,  ou^  wish  and 
prayer  that  you  may  by  that  time  see  your  way 
to  being  one  of  the  great  Church  you  are  even 
now  helping  to>  defend  and  serve." 

The  other  Jesuits  bowed  graciously  to  Devlin; 
the  one  next  him  cordially  shook  his  hand, 
saying,  "Amen,  to  the  Father's  prayer!"  and  the 
principal  himself  opened  the  door  they  had  en- 
tered by  and  ushered  him  out. 

"Be  sure,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands  with 
him  in  the  vestibule,  "that  your  efforts  will  not 
have  been  fruitless,  nor  your  humanity  unre- 
warded," and  he  bowed  most  courteously  to  his 
departing  guest. 


A   GREAT   FEAR 

A  FTER  the  murder  of  Anunciato  and 
jL\  his  parting  from  Dolores,  Cristobal 
-*-  -*-on  the  dead  man's  horse  went  gallop- 
ing off  to  the  east  toward  Las  Animas  Coun- 
ty; but  before  he  had  ridden  long,  even  in 
his  perturbed  brain,  thoughts  began  to  form 
themselves  and  to  persist.  And  the  thought  that 
troubled  him  most,  becoming  finally  so  fierce 
that  it  drove  all  other  ideas  of  safety  from  him, 
was  that  he  had  left  there  at  the  house,  besides 
the  dead  body  of  Dolores's  sister,  that  other  dead 
body, — lying  in  the  shadow  truly,  but  likely 
enough  to  be  found  even  before  he  could  get 
back  there  and  hide  it.  He  turned  his  sweating 
horse,  cursing  himself  for  a  fool,  and  drove  the 
rowels  cruelly  into  the  weary  animal's  sides. 

He  forgot  that  this  was  Anunciato's  horse  he 
rode;  he  only  remembered  that  if  the  body  were 
hidden  it  would  be  natural  enough  for  everyone 
to-  think  that  Anunciato  had  gone  off  again  on 
one  of  his  sudden  trips  to  New  Mexico.  Then 
he  would  be  safe. 

There  was  no  one  in  sight  on  the  dusty  yellow 
roads.  He  made  a  detour  to  avoid  any  village 
or  ranch  house.    The  setting  sun  shone  into  his 

46 


A  GREAT   FEAR  47 

eyes  from  over  the  western  hills  and  dazzled 
him;  but  fate  seemed  to  be  leading  him  along  by 
the  right  way.  As  he  neared  the  low  brown  house 
where  the  dead  were,  he  drew  in  his  horse,  going 
slower  and  slower  from  a  trot  to  a  walk,  and  at 
last  stopping  still.  The  horse  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  its  sides  heaving,  its  head  hang- 
ing low,  exhausted.  For  a  minute  Cristobal  sat 
there  as  in  a  dream.  Then  he  raised  himself  in 
his  high  stirrups,  and  looked  around  about  him 
over  the  Valley  on  all  sides.  In  the  thickening 
dusk  of  evening  he  saw  nobody;  in  the  hush  of 
twilight  he  heard  no  sound,  except  the  panting 
of  his  horse,  and  the  gurgle  of  the  artesian  well 
opposite  the  house.  It  was  a  house  of  a  dull, 
somber  brown,  with  the  blackness  of  night  in- 
side its  open  doors  and  windows.  He  was 
afraid  to  go  there. 

He  patted  his  horse's  flank  to  give  himself 
comfort,  but  there  was  no  comfort  for  him;  and 
shaking  his  head  disconsolately,  he  laid  the  rein 
against  the  patient  beast's  neck.  Even  while 
the  horse  turned,  Cristobal  changed  his  mind 
again,  and  made  it  turn  full  around.  He  felt  a 
strong  desire  impelling  him  to  go  to  the  house 
and  to  see  the  man  he  had  murdered,! — to  see 
him  and  to  touch  him.  Slowly  he  dismounted, 
and,  trembling,  led  the  weary  horse  to  the  fence 
across  the  road.  Tying  it  there,  he  gathered 
himself  together  and  tried  to  approach  the  house. 


48      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

He  could  not  move.  He  dared  not.  For  a 
long  while  he  stood  still  as  death,  trembling. 
At  last  with  a  great  effort  he  took  a  step  for- 
ward. 

The  sun,  red  as  wine,  suddenly  dropped  be- 
hind the  hills,  and  a  moment  after  the  Valley  was 
dark.  Cristobal  stooping,  leaned  over  the  water- 
trough  and  put  his  hands  together  to  drink; 
but  before  he  might  drink,  he  straightened  up 
again  with  a  start,  looking  about  him  as  though 
he  had  heard  something.  After  waiting  to  lis- 
ten to  the  intense  silence,  he  ventured  to  take 
off  his  hat,  and  having  filled  it  with  water  from 
the  well  stream,  drank. 

He  murmured  a  prayer,  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  and  went  cautiously  over  to  the  house 
and  into  the  porch. 

He  bent  down  and  felt  for  the  body.  It  was 
not  there  where  it  had  lain  in  the  porch.  A 
great  fear  came  upon  him  that  some  one  had 
already  been  there  and  found  it.  He  moved 
about  the  porch,  feeling  for  it  with  his  feet.  It 
was  nowhere  there.  He  stopped,  stunned. 
Then  the  idea  flashed  upon  him  that  the  priest 
had  buried  it;  or  had  taken  it  into  the  house. 
At  the  open  door  he  hesitated  only  a  second  be- 
fore plunging  into  intense  darkness  inside.  No 
sooner  was  he  in  the  house  than  he  gave  a  loud 
cry,  from  sheer  fright;  and  then  cowered  in  a 
corner,  waiting.     Utter  silence  followed. 


A  GREAT  FEAR  49 

With  shaking  fingers  he  drew  a  match  from  his 
pocket  and  struck  it.  In  its  sudden  glare  he 
had  sight  of  all  the  room  with  its  shadows,  of 
the  dead  woman  in  the  bed,  and  of  the  dead  man 
there  at  his  feet.  He  dropped  the  match.  But 
he  had  seen  where  a  candle  stood  on  a  table;  to- 
ward which,  with  care  not  to  stumble  over  the 
body  on  the  floor,  he  groped  his  way,  and  lighted 
it. 

There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  to  move  the 
flame.  In  the  dim  but  steady  light  his  courage 
came  in  some  measure  back  to  him;  and  his 
first  impulse  led  him  to  take  the  candle  and 
examine  the  only  other  room  in  the  house. 
There  was  nothing  there. 

After  some  search  he  found  a  spade  lying  in  a 
corner,  and  with  it  he  came  back  into  the  room 
of  the  dead.  The  face  of  the  woman  on  the  bed 
was  hidden  by  the  sheet  over  her,  but  the  face 
of  Anunciato  stared  up  at  him  with  its  closed 
eyes.  He  took  the  handkerchief,  which  Dolores 
had  had  put  over  the  bloody  spot  on  the  dead 
man's  shirt,  and  dropped  it  over  the  face. 

Then  he  set  to  work  with  the  spade.  He  dug 
near  the  wall,  as  it  was  his  plan  to  hide  the  grave 
by  moving  the  bed  over  it.  He  was  forced 
therefore  to  turn  his  back  on  the  room;  but 
after  every  spadeful  of  sand  he  would  glance 
behind  him  over  his  shoulders  furtively.  The 
sand  made  a  low  caressing  noise,  as  it  slipped 


50      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

from  the  spade.  All  at  once  he  heard  a  sound, 
and  stopped  digging,  holding  the  spade  in  the 
air.  It  was  only  his  horse  kicking  restlessly 
against  the  watering  trough;  but  it  caused  him 
to  turn  and  smash  his  palm  down  on  the  candle 
flame,  extinguishing  it.  He  shook  again  with 
fear,  thinking  how  some  one  might  have  passed 
and  looked  in. 

In  the  dark  he  dug  with  difficulty  and  had  no 
way  to  know  when  the  grave  was  deep  enough, 
but  by  going  into  it  to  measure.  At  last  he 
had  finished;  and,  hot  with  his  toil,  he  rested, 
sickened  at  the  thought  of  touching  the  man  he 
had  murdered.  As  he  stood  there  in  the  dark 
and  the  silence  the  idea  came  to  him  that  per- 
haps it  was  not  the  priest  who  had  brought  the 
body  in  there.  He  had  heard  before  of  the  un- 
buried  dead  moving  from  place  to  place  for  the 
sake  of  companionship.  He  felt  for  another 
match  and  lighted  it.  No,  the  bodies  still  lay 
there  motionless  in  their  places.  But  then  he 
had  heard,  too,  of  the  murdered  dead  refusing  to 
lie  quiet  in  their  graves.  These  night  stories 
shook  him  now  and  chilled  him.  He  would  have 
run  from  the  house,  except  that  there  was  no 
way  out  but  past  those  two.  He  could  hear  his 
own  teeth  chatter.  Until  the  flame  burned  his 
fingers,  he  did  not  drop  the  match. 

He  dared  not  stay  there  longer  in  the  dark, 
whatever  might  come  of  it;  and  he  lighted  the 


A  GREAT   FEAR  51 

wan  candle  again.  Then  he  dreaded  to  stay 
there  with  the  light  on  his  deeds;  and  his  very 
dread  nerved  him  to*  lay  strong  hands  on  the 
murdered  man  and  to  drag  him  across  the  floor 
and  tumble  him  into  the  grave.  In  hopes  that 
the  body  might  more  surely  lie  quiet  if  it  were 
comfortable,  he  forced  himself  to  go  down  on 
his  knees,  and  to  lean  over  and  straighten  its  legs 
and  arms.  Then  springing  up,  he  shoveled  back 
the  sand  with  a  sudden  desperate  haste,  and 
stamped  it  down  smooth.  With  the  same  energy 
he  pulled  out  the  bed  with  the  dead  woman  lying 
under  the  white  sheet  upon  it,  and  pushed  it  over 
and  lifted  it,  until  it  stood  above  the  grave. 

Then  blowing  out  the  candle  with  one  breath, 
he  rushed  from  the  ghastly  house;  and  untying 
his  horse  with  mad  haste,  sprang  on  its  back  and 
galloped  away  with  the  cold,  deathly  terror  still 
in  his  heart. 


VI 

THE   HOUSE   OF   THE   DEAD 

CRISTOBAL  arrived  early  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  Las  Animas  County.  Putting 
up  his  horse  at  an  hotel  in  a  small 
town,  he  went  to  mass.  Although  nobody 
recognized  him,  and  his  City  of  Refuge  seemed 
therefore  fairly  safe,  yet  his  first  care  after 
mass  was  to  have  his  long  black  mustache 
shaved  off,  and  to  buy  a  new  hat  and  a  new 
suit  of  what  in  his  eyes  looked  like  city  clothes, 
from  an  accommodating  friend  of  the  barber's, 
who  opened  his  shop  for  him  on  his  representa- 
tion that  he  was  going  that  morning  to  Denver. 
Doubtless  both  the  barber  and  his  friend  thought 
him  a  horse  thief,  and  after  having  seen  him  con- 
sistently ride  away  in  the  direction  of  the  rail- 
road, would  have  discreetly  sent  any  inquirers 
about  him  off  on  some  wrong  trail. 

Cristobal  rode  no  farther  than  the  next  town, 
where  he  alighted  again  at  an  hotel;  and,  going 
into  the  bar,  sat  morbidly  there  the  rest  of  the 
day,  thinking  what  he  should  do,  and  thinking 
orf  Lola.  His  sullenness  created  so  much  re- 
mark during  the  afternoon  that  he  finally  judged 
it  more  inconspicuous  to<  be  sociable.  So  he 
began  to  drink  with  a  miscellaneous  crowd  of 

52 


THE   HOUSE   OF  THE   DEAD  53 

ranchmen  and  loafers  who  were  there.  How- 
ever, as  Cristobal  remembered,  liquor  loosens 
the  tongue;  and  not  wanting  to  lose  control  of 
his,  he  drank  carefully.  He  never  had  consid- 
ered how  the  carefulest  drinking  alters  the 
workings  of  the  brain;  and  as  the  sudden  evening 
shadows  fell,  though  he  could  not  be  called 
drunk,  his  mind  was  full  of  shapes.  One  shape 
was  Anunciato  in  his  grave,  moving  about  un- 
easily till  the  sand  above  him  became  humpy  > 
and  the  bed  where  the  dead  woman  lay  rocked, 
and  people  coming  into  the  silent  house  looked 
at  one  another  with  wide  eyes,  saying,  "It  is 
strange!"  and  added  under  their  breath  the  name 
of  Cristobal.  This  fume  of  fancy  made  Cristo- 
bal feel  cold  down  his  back  and  arms,  and  shiver, 
and  also  made  him  choke  over  his  whisky.  Un- 
pleasing  as  the  picture  was,  he  could  not  erase  it. 
from  the  tablet  of  his  mind;  but  there  in  the. 
smoky  little  bar,  where  the  vile  smell  of  the 
sooty  lamps  was  beginning  to  down  the  vile 
smell  of  cheap  whisky,  and  where  the  atmos- 
phere was  thick  with  curses  and  filth,  where  he 
knew  in  his  very  soul  there  was  no  one  dead  and 
no  silence;  he  could  see  as  plainly  almost  as  he 
saw  his  boot,  the  edges  of  sand  trickling  out 
untidily  from  under  the  bed  which  he  had  put 
there  to  conceal  them,  but  which  now  only 
rocked  and  rocked,  and  showed  that  there  was 
some  one  underneath  it. 


54      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

He  set  down  his  glass  and  struck  himself  with 
one  fist  on  the  head.  He  knew  he  was  awake; 
he  knew  he  was  not  drunk;  but  nevertheless  he 
knew,  when  he  stopped  to  think  of  it,  that  this 
thing  he  saw  was  all  a  dream;  and  yet,  might  not 
the  fresh  sand  really  show  in  the  daytime?  He 
had  covered  it  so  hurriedly  in  the  dim  light,  and 
while  so  frightened,  that  probably  it  might.  He 
would  go  see, — at  once.  Up  he  jumped,  forget- 
ting that  it  was  now  night. 

His  companions  jumped  up,  too,  swearing 
noisily,  and  demanding  where  he  was  going;  but 
Cristobal,  with  an  oath  on  his  own  part,  throw- 
ing two  Mexican  dollars  through  the  tobacco 
smoke  to  the  bartender,  told  them  good-night  so 
definitely  and  swaggered  out  with  so  much  Span- 
ish dignity,  that  they  said  they  were  relieved  to 
have  this  low-born  wretch  away,  and  shouted 
after  him,  when  the  door  was  closed,  directions 
as  to  his  route. 

Back  once  more,  again  through  the  warm 
night,  over  the  same  road  he  had  traversed  the 
night  before,  morning  indeed  dawned  and  the 
sun  rose  at  his  back  before  he  came  to  the  fatal 
house. 

Not  over-trusting  in  his  changed  appearance, 
he  kept  a  nervous  hand  on  his  rein,  and  the  other 
ready  to  his  revolver,  as  well  as  a  keen  eye  about 
the  plain;  but  as  usual  there  was  no  sign  of  life 
in  the  Valley;  and  the  house,  of  a.  less  somber 


THE   HOUSE  OF  THE   DEAD  55 

brown  in  the  oblique  morning  light,  was  just  as 
still  and  forbidding  as  before.  He  dismounted 
a  little  way  from  it,  and  led  his  horse  by  the 
bridle,  going  very  slowly,  with  a  sharp  ear  on 
the  alert.  All  at  once  he  paused,  drawing  back 
a  little.  As  he  listened  there  was  a  sound  from 
within  the  house, — a  mumbling  sound, — a  voice, 
— a  voice  praying.  The  dead  do  not  pray,  not 
in  the  morning  at  any  rate.  In  an  instant  Cris- 
tobal had  a  foot  in  the  stirrup,  ready  to  mount. 
Then  smiling  scornfully,  he  hesitated  again. 
Neither  did  the  living  pray  among  the  dead  in 
the  morning  in  Cristobal's  experience,  except 
priests. 

He  therefore  advanced  again;  and  sure 
enough,  when  he  stopped  to  tie  his  horse,  there 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house  stood  the  little 
donkey  of  the  Father  Maria  de  Jesus. 

Then  Cristobal  went  boldly  enough  into  the 
porch.  Looking  into  the  room,  which  the  one 
square  of  daylight  on  the  floor  made  bleaker 
and  more  dismal  than  ever,  he  saw  the  priest 
on  his  knees  by  the  bed,  and  heard  him  praying. 
In  a  moment  or  two,  however,  Father  Maria  de 
Jesus,  seeming  to  feel  the  steady  gaze  fixed  upon 
him,  stopped  short  in  his  prayer,  turned  and 
rose,  confronting  the  intruder. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  said,  rather  sharply,  not 
recognizing  in  the  light  checked  suit  the  rough 
plainsman  of  his  former  acquaintance. 


56      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Father?"  asked  the 
other  in  reply,  a  tone  of  satisfaction  in  his  voice. 

Peering  keenly  at  the  face,  which  he  could 
scarcely  see  as  the  new-comer  stood  there  in  the 
doorway  with  his  back  to  the  light,  the  priest, 
recognizing  the  voice,  exclaimed  "Cristobal !" 
and  dropping  his  own  voice  to  a  sterner  key,  de- 
manded: "What  have  you  done  with  the  body  of 
Anunciato?" 

"You  have  not  found  it,  Father?"  asked  Cris- 
tobal, yet  more  satisfied  at  the  question. 

"Found  it!"  repeated  the  Father  sternly. 
"What  have  you  done  with  it?     Tell  me!" 

Cristobal  pointed.  "It  is  there,"  he  said 
obediently,  "under  the  bed." 

The  priest  turned  slowly  to  look. 

"Buried,"  explained  Cristobal  less  confidently, 
and  hesitated,  then  went  on,  as  if  compelled:  "I 
was  afraid — some  one — would  come — and  see 
it." 

The  priest  turned  again  and  faced  him.  At 
the  very  look  of  the  little  man,  who,  even  now, 
erect  as  he  was  at  his  full  indignant  height,  was 
scarcely  taller  than  the  other's  shoulder, — at  his 
very  look  of  indignation  the  murderer  was 
cowed.  He  twisted  his  shoulders  uneasily, 
searching  for  words. 

"Take  off  your  hat!"  commanded  the  stern, 
deep  voice  of  the  priest.  "Show  that  respect  to 
the  dead,  at  least  in  my  presence." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  DEAD  57 

Cristobal  obeyed. 

The  priest  paused,  but  not  with  hesitation* 
Finally  he  began,  with  a  forced  calmness:  "Three 
of  us,"  he  said,  "saw  your  unpremeditated  mur- 
der. I  absolved  you  of  the  sin,  believing  in  your 
true  repentance,  such  as  often  comes  as  suddenly 
as  the  crime.  The  other  two  swore  not  to  di- 
vulge it.  Did  you  fear  lest  God,  satisfied  as  I 
was  of  your  remorse  and  of  your  resolve  to  lead 
a  good  life,  would  have  betrayed  you  to  a  mere 
human  punishment  which  could  not  have  helped 
your  heart  nor  yet  have  undone  the  deed?  You 
did  fear  it.  And  so  you  came  stealthily  and 
buried  this  man  to  hide  him  away,  where  even  I 
could  not  have  found  him  unless  I  had  met  you 
now.  What  you  have  come  for  now,  I  do  not 
know.  I  cannot  see  what  further  impious  inten- 
tion may  have  been  in  your  heart.  Perhaps  you 
are  driven  here  by  one  of  those  avenging  voices 
from  heaven,  which  drive  the  unrepentant  to 
and  fro  on  the  earth,  and  make  them  haunt  the 
scenes  of  their  crimes  like  madmen.  If  such  a 
voice  has  driven  you  back  here  now,  it  is  well;  for 
so  I  have  learned  where  your  victim  is  hidden, 
and  I  can  give  him  a  Christian  burial,  as  I  had 
intended  to  do  when  I  came  here  this  morning. 

"Cristobal,"  he  continued,  his  own  voice  itself 
sounding  in  the  ears  of  the  other  like  an  aveng- 
ing voice  from  heaven,  "do  you  know  what  you 
have  done,  or  meant  to  do?    Anunciato  was  a 


58      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN  RAFAEL 

good  Catholic;  he  died,  I  know,  suddenly,  with 
the  stain  of  sin  on  his  soul' — but  he  died  by  your 
hand;  and  I  do  not  know  which  of  you  would 
have  been  the  more  responsible  for  his  uncon- 
fessed  sins.  God  is  very  merciful,  and  knowing 
that,  I  came  here,  prepared  as  his  humble  servant 
to  take  my  part  in  showing  that  mercy,  and  to 
bury  Anunciato  with  the  same  rites  in  the  same 
consecrated  ground  with  this  absolved  woman, 
to  whom  I  gave  the  last  Sacraments;"  he  mut- 
tered some  words  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross; 
Cristobal,  standing  with  his  head  down,  did  like- 
wise. 'Thank  God/'  pursued  the  priest,  "thank 
God  in  his  goodness  to  you,  a  very  sinful  man, 
that  you  found  me  here.  The  consequences  of 
your  unfaith  can  now  be  repaired;  and  perhaps 
your  sin  may  be  less  black  than  if  you  had  caused 
the  Catholic  dead  to  lie  in  unholy  ground." 

He  stopped,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  Cristobal, 
who  stood  nervously  moving  his  fingers.  In  a 
kinder  voice,  he  added:  "Come,  help  me  now  to 
move  the  dead." 

Cristobal,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  raised  his  head, 
and  hurried  briskly  to  aid  the  priest.  Together 
they  lifted  the  low  bed,  and  moved  it  back  to 
where  it  had  before  stood. 

"Take  your  spade,"  said  the  priest,  "and  dig 
him  up." 

With  silent  docility,  Cristobal  applied  himself 
to  the  task,  taking  out  each  spadeful,  however, 


THE  HOUSE   OF   THE   DEAD  59 

with  timorous  hesitancy.    At  last  he  spoke  un- 
quietly  over  his  shoulder:  "If  any  one  comes — " 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  per- 
emptorily. "Go  on.  I  am  ashamed  of  you;"  and 
directly  afterwards,  "have  I  not  promised?" 

Cristobal  continued,  with  set,  pale  face.  When 
his  spade  struck  the  body  he  shuddered;  but 
gathering  himself  together,  he  lifted  off  the  rest 
of  the  sand  in  thin  layers,  until  the  form  of  the 
dead  man,  lying  straight  and  comfortable,  as  he 
had  placed  him,  could  plainly  be  seen  under  only 
a  light  covering  of  it. 

"Must  I  take  him  out?"  he  said,  rising,  and 
rubbing  his  cheeks  with  his  two  palms. 

"Yes,"  the  priest  nodded,  "I  will  help  you." 

Cristobal  took  the  feet  and  he  the  shoulders, 
and  together  they  lifted  out  the  body.  They  laid 
it  along  beside  the  shallow  open  grave. 

Then  the  priest,  thinking,  with  one  hand  over 
his  face,  hesitated.  "I  do  not  know,"  he  said, 
aloud,  but  as  if  to  himself,  "whether  to  have  you 
read  the  responses.  Your  soul  is  very  black  with 
sin — and  yet,"  he  decided,  "we  are  all  sinful,  and 
God  does  not  forbid  us  to  worship  him." 

He  started  out  of  the  house;  and  Cristobal,  not 
liking  even  in  the  daytime  to  be  left  there  alone, 
followed  him.  Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  untying 
from  his  donkey's  saddle  a  small  leather  satchel, 
took  it  into  the  house  and  opened  it  there.  Tak- 
ing from  it  a  pair  of  candlesticks  and  candles,  a 


6o      THE    PENTTENTES   OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

crucifix,  a  breviary,  all  of  which  he  set  down  care* 
fully  on  a  bench,  he  took  out  finally  a  bottle  of 
holy-water  and  a  holy-water  brush.    With  these 
in  his  hands  he  started  out  again,  Cristobal,  as 
before,  going  after  him.      At   a   word  over  his 
shoulder  from  the  priest,  the  other  turned  again 
into  the  room  and  fetched  the  spade.    Following 
the  directions  given  him,  but  without  a  word  on 
his  own  part,  Cristobal  marked  out  on  a  smooth 
spot  of  sand  behind  the  house  a  square  about 
eight    feet;    and    then    leaning   on   his    spade, 
watched  with  solemn  eyes  while  the  priest  per- 
formed lustrations  and  recited  prayers.     This 
ceremony  finished,  he  was  set  to  work  to  dig  the 
two  graves;  and  these  he  made,  out  there  in  the 
blessed  hot  sunlight,  with  more  alacrity  than  he 
had  shown  over  the  other.     Father  Maria  de 
Jesus,  after  watching  him  for  a  while  and  making 
one  or  two  suggestions  which  were  straightly  ob- 
served, left  him.    When  Cristobal,  his  labor  fin- 
ished, returned  to  the  dark  house,  he  found  the 
candles  lighted,  and  the  brown  form  of  the  priest 
again  on  his  knees  murmuring  prayers.    Without 
a  word  he  rose  at  the  other's  approach,  and  when 
he  stooped  and  put  his  hands  again  beneath  the 
dead  man's  shoulders,  Cristobal  understanding, 
again  laid  hold  of  the  feet,  and  together  they 
lifted  him  and  laid  him  alongside  the  bed,  at  the 
end  of  which  the  priest  had  erected  his  temporary 
altar 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE   DEAD  6l 

"You  can  read?"  said  Father  Maria  de  Jesus, 
handing  his  breviary  to  Cristobal. 

"Yes,  Father;  but  not  this.  This  isn't  Spanish, 
nor  English. " 

The  priest  taking  the  book  back  from  him, 
said:  "Then  I  will  say  the  responses  to  you,  and 
you  repeat  them  after  me,  word  by  word." 

Cristobal  bowed  his  head. 

So  they  said  the  funeral  service  over  the  dead; 
the  priest  reciting  his  portions  of  it,  with  the 
ease  of  familiarity  and  the  reverence  of  a  full  and 
honest  heart — the  stammering  assistant  in  his 
light  gray  checked  suit,  repeating  witlessly  as 
best  he  could,  the  Latin  words  told  slowly  to 
him,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  when  the  priest 
made  it,  and  kneeling  and  rising  according  to  the 
motions  the  priest  made  him  with  his  hand.  The 
alternate  fervid  and  halting  sentences  alone 
broke  the  hush  in  the  gloomy  room,  with  its 
shadowy  bare  corners,  and  its  piercing  ray  of 
sunlight  which,  coming  in  through  the  doorway, 
made  the  two  candle-flames  by  contrast  pale  and 
ghastly. 

When  the  time  had  come,  they  lifted  the 
bodies,  each  in  its  turn  and  carried  them  slowly 
and  wearily  out  to  the  newly  blessed  grave-plot. 
There,  in  the  full  expanse  of  day,  there  was  as  lit- 
tle sound  as  even  in  the  house.  The  air  was  still 
and  thin,  but  quivering  with  intensity  of  heat. 
As  the  two  ended  the  simple  service,  already  the 


62      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

drops  of  sweat  were  thick  on  their  dark  faces; 
and  when  Cristobal  had  finished  filling  in  the 
graves,  he  was  wet  and  panting. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  hurrying  back  into  the 
house,  began  putting  his  altar  ornaments  into  his 
satchel,  saying,  "I  must  hurry  back  to  my 
people." 

"Lola,  Father,"  began  Cristobal,  holding  his 
hat  in  one  hand,  and  looking  first  down,  then  up 
at  the  priest's  face:  "How  is  she?" 

"Well  again,  Cristobal,"  he  replied.  "She  is 
beginning  already  to  be  comforted." 

They  went  together  into  the  porch. 

"You  will — "  The  eager  black  eyes  gazed  be- 
seechingly; "you  will  let  her  come  with  me?" 

The  priest  set  down  his  satchel  carefully  on  the 
floor  before  he  turned  upon  him.  Frowning 
sternly,  he  shook  his  reproving  head. 

"No,  Cristobal;  no.  And  do  you  not  under- 
stand why  perfectly?  I  told  you  day  before  yes- 
terday that  you  could  not  enjoy  the  fruit  of  your 
crime,  before  you  had  repented  of  it.  And  to- 
day I  find  you  even  less  repentant  than  then. 
No,  think  of  your  soul  before  you  think  of  Lola; 
it  would  be  hideous  now.  I  will  not  have  you 
marry  her.    For  the  present  forget  her." 

Speechless  under  the  rebuke  until  this  point, 
Cristobal  shook  his  head,  and  with  his  fervent 
eyes  fixed  on  the  priest,  said  in  a  low  voice:  "No, 
Father." 


THE   HOUSE   OF  THE   DEAD  63 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  looked  at  him  con- 
templatively, and  then  said:  "Well,  I  will  not 
have  you  marry  her  now.  I  tell  you  what  to  do. 
Go  back  into  Las  Animas,  and  lead  a  good  life; 
go  to  mass  every  Sunday  and  holy-day,  fast  every 
fast-day,  say  your  prayers  regularly  and  do  what- 
ever works  of  charity  you  can.  Try,  try,  to  get 
the  sin  out  of  your  heart,  and  to  feel  sorry.  I 
should  not  dare  to  absolve  you  now;  but  when 
you  are  repentant,  confess  to  a  priest,  and  he  will 
do  so.  Pray  continually  for  the  soul  of  Anun- 
ciato;  I  will  say  a  mass  for  him;  and  when  you 
hear  of  any  indulgence  to  be  had,  work  and  pray 
until  you  have  earned  it,  and  then  ask  God  to 
apply  it  to  the  soul  of  the  man  you  have  mur- 
dered."   He  paused. 

"And  Lola,  Father — "  insisted  Cristobal: 
"When— I  did  it  for  her." 

The  priest  gave  him  a  final  glance,  calm  and 
cold  with  scorn:  "Am  I  here,"  he  said,  "to  be  a 
marriage-maker?  No;  to  care  for  souls.  Go 
and  do  as  I  bade  you." 

He  picked  up  his  satchel,  untied  and  mounted 
his  donkey,  and  rode  ambling  away,  all  without 
another  look  at  Cristobal. 

He,  standing  there  in  the  porch,  gazed  for  a 
long  time  after  him,  his  expression  a  mingling  of 
reverence  and  defiance.  Finally  he  sighed,  set 
his  mouth  firm,  and  mounting  his  horse,  galloped 
away  eastward  towards  Las  Animas  county. 


VII 

PASCO    AND    PAEZ 

ON  THE  Monday  Dolores  had  recovered 
from  her  hysteria.  After  a  breakfast  of 
bacon  and  potatoes,  Panchita,  who  was 
the  dressmaker  of  San  Rafael,  told  her  that  she 
would  be  expected  to  help  with  the  sewing.  The 
two  women,  one  young,  dark,  and  pretty,  the 
other  elderly,  fat,  and  contented-looking,  each 
with  her  blue  stint,  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  square 
brown  room.  Through  the  open  door  they 
could  see  into  the  porch  and  beyond,  and  could 
hear  the  swishing  of  Pasco's  work  as  village  dyer. 

They  were  hardly  well  begun,  when  a  shrill 
voice  outside  was  heard  saying  "God  bless  you," 
to  Pasco;  and  the  gaunt  straight  form  of  Oesto- 
cris  slid  in. 

"God  be  with  you,  Panchita,"  she  said,  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross  before  an  orange-colored 
picture  of  Our  Lady  of  Santa  Fe;  "and  with  you, 
too — What  is  her  name?" 

"Dolores.    Lola  we  call  her." 

"And  you,  too,  Dolores.  I  didn't  see  you  at 
mass  yesterday,  nor  at  vespers  either." 

"Her  sister  has  just  died,"  Panchita  hastened 
to  explain,  "and  the  Father  excused  her." 

"When  any  one  dies,"  the  withered  old  woman 

64 


PASCO    AND    PAEZ  65 

began  severely  to  Dolores,  "the  best  place  to 
comfort  yourself  is  in  church.  The  only  place, 
too,  where  the  Lord  will  show  you,  if  you  pray 
enough — show  you  the  person  you  have  lost, 
dressed  in  gold  and  sitting  on  the  right  of  Our 
Blessed  Lady,  playing  on  a  harp.  I  saw  my  hus- 
band like  that;  but  only  when  I  was  in  the 
church;  and  the  more  candles  there  were,  the 
better  I  saw  him  through  the  light." 

Dolores  stared  at  her  with  wide  eyes;  but  at 
the  end  of  this  speech,  the  old  creature  turning 
to  Panchita,  said:  "I  have  come  to  get  me  a 
gown/' 

Seeing  their  backs  turned,  the  girl  with  her 
sewing,  quietly  slipped  out  into  the  porch. 
Pasco  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  shoulders 
to  the  wall,  his  legs  wide  apart  embracing  a  tub 
nearly  full  of  blue  liquid  in  which  were  big  bub- 
bles of  bloated  cloth.  These  he  stirred  round  and 
poked  with  a  stick.  There  was  a  curious  smooth 
smell  from  the  tub. 

Before  sitting  on  the  bench  Dolores  tried  to 
make  out  her  own  house  in  the  valley  below;  but 
search  as  she  might,  it  was  only  one  continuous 
yellow  reach  with  heat  twinkling  up  all  over  it. 

Sitting  down,  she  began  to  turn  a  hem,  swing- 
ing one  bare  foot  the  while.  At  last  she  looked 
at  Pasco.  Her  eyes  met  his;  but  he  at  once 
turned  away  his  head  and  stared  into  the  dis- 
tance.    Dolores  smiled.     She  regarded  his  blue 


66   THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

hands  and  arms,  shrunken  with  the  wet,  and  his 
calm  handsome  face.  As  long  as  she  examined 
him  he  kept  his  eyes  turned  away;  and  all  the 
time  went  on  swishing  and  swashing  about  in 
the  dye-stuff. 

Finally  she  said:  "Have  you  ever  been  down 
in  the  Valley?" 

He  turned  his  big  straightforward  eyes  to- 
ward her  and  faced  her,  impassive  enough.  He 
nodded  in  response. 

"To  Antonito?" 

Keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  again  he 
nodded. 

"To  Conejos?" 

Another  nod. 

"La  Jara?" 

Still  he  nodded,  slowly  and  seriously. 

"Ephraim  and  Manassa?" 

This  time  he  shook  his  head. 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Dolores:  "Ever  been 
out  of  the  Valley?" 

He  made  the  same  negative  reply. 

"Neither  have  I,"  she  said  again. 

She  had  laid  her  sewing  on  her  knee.  Now 
she  took  it  up  again,  and  as  she  stuck  her  needle 
into  her  hem,  she  began  to  laugh.  She  laughed 
right  gaily;  and  when  she  stopped  and  looked  at 
Pasco,  he  had  his  lips  parted  in  a  sympathetic 
smile  that  showed  all  his  strong  white  teeth.  At 
that  she  laughed  again. 


PASCO   AND    PAEZ  67 

When,  after  sewing  quickly  a  while,  she  lifted 
her  head  once  more  and  looked  at  Pasco,  who 
was  wringing  out  a  thick  twist  of  cloth,  he  had 
his  eyes  still  on  her. 

"I'm  sorry  I  came  to  this  house  to  live,"  said 
Dolores,  with  a  little  sigh. 

His  eyes  interrogated,  but  she  wouldn't  see 
their  meaning  and  went  on  diligently  sewing. 
Ultimately  he  said,  "Why?" 

She  replied  readily:  "I  have  an  idea  you  dis- 
like girls." 

Pasco  shook  his  head  with  vehemence  and 
added:    "No,  I  do  like  them." 

"Do  you  like  having  me  here?" 

He  gravely  nodded. 

Though  Dolores  gave  him  an  encouraging 
smile,  he  only  continued  regarding  her  fixedly 
with  his  big  calm  eyes.  So  with  a  toss  of  her 
head,  she  looked  away  and  went  on  with  her 
hem. 

At  the  end  of  it,  she  stood  up  on  her  bare  feet. 
Pasco  followed  her  every  movement  with  his 
eyes,  but  she  paid  no  more  attention  to  him. 
Laying  her  sewing  down  on  the  bench,  and  then 
stepping  tentatively  out  into  the  open  sunshine, 
she  started  off  toward  the  church.  She  had  the 
swaying,  self-reliant,  egotistical  gait  of  the 
graceful  Spanish  woman. 

Across  the  road  in  a  field  where  one  of  the 
gaunt  black  crosses  was,  she  could  see  a  dozen 


68      THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

dark  figures  working-.  In  the  shady  porch  of  the 
first  house  she  passed,  a  naked  little  girl  stood 
gazing  at  her.  Some  one  was  evidently  cooking 
inside,  to  judge  from  the  pungent  odor  of  a  pine 
fire. 

At  the  next  house  sat  a  young  man,  whose 
black  hair  fell  about  his  face  as  he  bent  over 
something  he  seemed  to*  be  mending.  She  halted 
and  stared  at  him.  Under  this  influence  he  soon 
raised  his  head,  and  straightening  up  gave  her  a 
fair  return  of  interest.  As  soon  as  his  eyes  caught 
hers,  Dolores  glanced  away.  As  she  hesitated,  a 
young  woman  in  a.  red  waist  who  was  in  the 
porch  of  the  house  still  beyond,  caught  her  at- 
tention. Dolores  at  once  faced  about  and  walked 
slowly  to  the  church. 

As  she  found  the  door  open,  she  went  in.  No- 
body was  there.  She  noticed  the  bell-rope  hang- 
ing near  the  altar  and  the  silver  candle-sticks 
standing  forth  on  her  white  mantilla.  Without 
noticing  the  sacred  pictures,  she  made  an  obei- 
sance before  the  huge  wax  Christ  on  his  cross 
over  the  altar,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
kneeled  on  the  earthen  floor. 

The  great  sunshine  pouring  in  through  the 
wide  door,  brightened  every  corner  of  the  chapel. 
There  was  a  faint  smell  of  stale  incense.  As  she 
prayed,  Dolores  watched  the  dust  dancing  in 
one  straight  shaft  of  light  that  came  through  the 
bell-rope  hole  and  struck  the  front  of  the  altar. 


PASCO    AND    PAEZ  6& 

Before  long  she  was  aware  of  somebody^ 
coming  into  the  church.  Out  of  the  tail  of  her 
eye,  she  saw  Father  Chucho,  who,  without  pay- 
ing any  attention  to  her,  after  saluting  the  altar, 
stepped  into  the  chancel.  His  brown  robes  were 
pale  with  white  dust.  Opening  a  little  satchel! 
which  he  carried,  he  began  to  take  things  out 
of  it,  and  to  put  them  on  the  altar.  In  a  moment 
she  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  towards  him. 
After  setting  the  crucifix  in  place,  he  turned  to 
her.  "Ah,  Lola,"  he  said  cheerily,  "I  am  glad 
to  see  you  looking  so  well.  The  Blessed  Virgin. 
has  comforted  you  already.  I  have  just  come- 
up  from  the  Valley,  from  burying  your  sister.  If 
I  had  known — I  might  have  taken  you  with  me; 
but  it  is  just  as  well.  The  Lord  will  hear  your 
prayers  here  as  well  as  by  the  grave.  May  he  be 
merciful  to  her!"  He  mused  a  minute,  and  then 
said,  smiling:  "Everyone  seems  to  be  out  in  the 
fields  working.  My  sermon  has  had  an  effect.. 
Even  old  Muhammah,  my  housekeeper,  insisted 
on  taking  a  rake  and  going  across  the  road  there- 
She  said  the  Lord's  harvest  must  be  made.  And. 
so  it  must;  so  it  must.  I  shall  go  over  there 
myself  soon:  but  the  Lord's  altar  must  be  kept 
clean,  too,  and  if  all  the  women  till  the  fields — 
By  the  way,  didn't  Panchita  give  you  any  task? 
We  aJ  labor  together,  for  the  glory  of  God." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dolores,  "I  did  do  some  sew- 
ing, but  I  came  up  here  to  pray  a  little  while." 


70      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Ah,  yes,  for  your  sister,  I  suppose.  God  save 
all  Catholic  souls — "  and  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 

"No,"  Dolores  said  candidly,  imitating-  his  ges- 
ture;  "I  wasn't  praying  for  her." 

"No?  Well,  I  will  say  a  mass  for  her  tomor- 
row in  return  for  this  beautiful  altar  cloth  you've 
given  us.  Indeed,  I'll  say  several  masses,"  he 
considered,  feeling  the  lace,  "for  your  kindness. 
But  for  whom  were  you  praying?" 

"For  Pasco,"  replied  Dolores. 

"For  Pasco,  Lola!  Oh,  I  see;  you  were  asking 
San  Rafael  to  implore  God  to  choose  him,  I'm 
sure.  Or  perhaps  you  asked  it  of  Our  Lady  of 
Sorrows.    She  is  your  Saint,  isn't  she?" 

"To  choose  Pasco?"  queried  the  girl. 

"Yes;  to  put  His  sacred  mark  on  him  and  set 
him  apart  for  the  blessed  role  in  our  festival. 
You  know  in  a  day  or  two  we  are  going  to  ask 
God  to  set  His  sign  upon  the  man  He  selects." 

Dolores,  who  had  not  heard  yesterday's  ser- 
mon stared  at  the  priest. 

"I  wish  with  all  my  heart,"  mused  he,  "that 
He  would  vouchsafe  to  send  us  the  sign  of  the 
tongue  of  fire,  which  He  set  upon  the  heads  of 
the  twelve  at  Pentecost.  But  He  has  not 
granted  that  to  us  since  San  Rafael  himself  was 
•crucified,  and  I  hardly  dare  to  hope — so  that  I 
won't  raise  their — "  then  he  remembered  Dolo- 
res; "O  Lola,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  who  still  had 


PASCO   AND   PAEZ  7* 

her  astonished  eyes  on  him;  "I  will  give  you  a 
task  to  do,  too,  for  the  love  of  Jesus.  Panchita 
can  spare  you.  Take  this  altar-cloth  you  have 
bestowed  on  San  Rafael  and  go  down  to  the 
river  and  wash  it.  It  has  got  a  little  dirty,  bring- 
ing it  here — "  he  was  folding  it  as  he  spoke; 
"Neetasta  will  show  you  the  pool  where  the 
women  wash.  I  saw  her  as  i  came  in,  talking  to 
Paez." 

"Who  is  Neetasta?"  asked  Dolores,  taking  the 
white  roll  carefully. 

"Fanita  is  the  name  I  christened  her,  but  we 
call  her  Neetasta;  she  lives  in  the  house  next  to 
mine." 

"Does  she  wear  a  red  waist?"  demanded 
Dolores. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  the  Father  answered, 
wrinkling  his  brow. 

Dolores  flushed. 

"Who  is  Paez?"  she  asked,  with  a  harder  ring 
in  her  voice. 

"He  is  the  son  of  old  Oestocris.  He  lives  in 
the  next  house  to  Fanita." 

"Is  he  an  Indian?"  asked  the  girl. 

"An  Indian?" 

"His  mother  is." 

"She  is  a  good  Catholic,  Lola,"  he  said. 

"Pasco  can  show  me  where  the  pool  is,"  said 
Dolores;  and  she  turned  and  walked  out. 

Though  she  would  not  look  directly  at  the 


72   THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

porch  where  the  very  dark  young  man  sat  mend- 
ing something,  she  could  see  well  enough  that 
the  girl  in  the  red  waist  was  standing  there,  arms 
akimbo,  talking  to  him.  She  could  even  hear 
the  sound  of  their  voices.  The  talking  ceased 
abruptly  when  she  appeared.  Putting  her  head 
higher,  Dolores  swung  off  in  her  finest  strut, 
down  towards  Panchita's. 

She  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house  so 
suddenly  that  Pasco,  still  sitting  in  the  same  at- 
titude, stirring  the  blue  mess  in  the  tub  between 
his  legs,  looked  up  with  almost  a  start. 

"Pasco,"  gasped  the  girl,  "did  you  dye  that 
red  waist  that  girl  up  there  wears  ?" 

Pasco  nodded. 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  yellow  one, 
will  you?    A  whole  gown,  will  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pasco. 

"Come  and  show  me  the  pool  where  they  wash 
things." 

He  got  his  legs  from  round  the  tub  and  stiffly 
pulled  himself  up.  Then  he  stretched  himself  as 
thoroughly  and  languidly  as  a  cat;  yawned,  too. 
Then  he  took  up  a  wrung-out  blue  twist  that 
lay  beside  the  tub,  and  they  started. 


VIII 

PRIDE   OF    BIRTH 

THE  opportunity  for  Dolores  to  slip  out  of 
the  dress-making  room  had  been  the* 
arrival  of  Oestocris.  The  old  half-breed! 
woman  had  made  some  remark  about  needing  a, 
gown;  but  on  being  aware  that  the  girl  was 
gone,  she  muttered  something  about  making  her 
old  skirt  do.  Her  sharp  ears  having  caught 
the  fresh  tones  of  Dolores's  voice  outside,  Oesto- 
cris turned  summarily  upon  Panchita,  demand- 
ing:  "Why  was  that  girl  sent  here  to  you?" 

Panchita,  with  a  slight  gasp,  replied:  "Father 
Chucho  brought  her  here  and  told  me  to  keep 
her." 

"Why  did  he  choose  your  house ?"  asked  the 
other  cuttingly. 

"It's  bigger  than  most,"  said  Panchita  pla- 
catingly. 

"It's  no  bigger  than  mine." 

"No,"  admitted  the  fat  woman;  adding  in  a 
lower  tone;  "I  have  my  doubts  if  she's  a  very 
good  Catholic." 

Oestocris,  silenced  for  a  moment,  tightened 
her  thin  dark  lips,  nodding  significantly. 

"Then  she  ought  to  have  been  sent  to  mc," 

7i 


74      THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

she  suddenly  declared.  "But  I  know  why  it 
was.    The  Father  considered  Paez." 

"Paez?" 

"Yes;  he's  the  handsomest  boy  in  San  Rafael." 

"I  don't  know  that  he  is,"  replied  Panchita 
hotly. 

"He's  the  most  angelic  boy  in  the  whole  Val- 
ley," insisted  the  old  woman. 

Though  Panchita  ventured  no  more  protest, 
her  pale  eyes  were  unwontedly  fiery. 

Oestocris,  nodding  her  white  head  sharply, 
grunted. 

"That  he  is,"  she  said,  putting  her  worn  hands 
on  her  knees  to  rise. 

"I  thought  Paez  was  going  to  marry  Fanita." 

"So  I  thought,  too,"  admitted  Oestocris;  "but 
God's  will  be  done;"  she  crossed  herself  and 
added  proudly.    "He  is  going  to  be  the  Christ." 

"Paez!"  exclaimed  Panchita. 

"My  son  Paez." 

"The  cross-bearer!  How  do  you  know?  Did 
Father  Chucho  tell  you?" 

"He  didn't  need  to.    Our  Lady  told  me." 

While  Panchita  gazed  at  her  breathless,  the 
gaunt  old  creature  got  up,  smoothing  back  her 
straight  white  hair  with  one  bony  hand ;  and  with 
a  hideous  smile  at  her,  went  out  as  noiselessly  as 
she  had  come  in. 

After  an  instant  of  astonished  quietude,  Pan- 


PRIDE    OF    BIRTH  7$ 

chita  waddled  after  her.  But  Pasco  was  alone 
in  the  porch. 

"Pasco,"  panted  his  mother,  looking  from  his 
blue  hands  to  his  dark  head;  "you  be  careful  of 
that  girl  Lola.  I'm  afraid  she  isn't  a  very  good 
Catholic.  But — but  a  cow  could  see  that  you 
are  handsomer  than  that — and  I  know  that's  not 
why  Father  Chucho  put  her — anyway,  you  be 
careful.    Where  is  she  now?" 

"In  the  church,"  said  Pasco. 

"Well,  that's  a  good  sign.  You  pray  for  her," 
and  she  went  in  again  without  waiting  for  an 
answer. 

Meanwhile,  Dolores  after  having  seen  Paez 
and  Fanita  in  their  respective  porches,  and  hav- 
ing stared  at  the  one  and  ignored  the  other,  had, 
as  Pasco  said,  gone  into  the  church.  As  soon 
as  she  had  disappeared,  Fanita  hurried  from  the 
shade  of  her  own  porch  over  to  where  Paez  sat 
mending  his  rake.  As  he  raised  his  head,  his 
straight  black  locks  fell  down  about  his  ears 
and  neck.  Though  he  had  high  cheek  bones 
and  an  Indian's  stern  nose,  his  eyes  were  singu- 
larly soft  and  his  mouth  girlish. 

"Is  that  the  new  girl?"  asked  Fanita,  facing 
him. 

"I  suppose  it  is." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"You  could  see  as  well  as  I  could,"  he  replied; 
"she  wasn't  near  enough." 


76      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Well,  I  know  she  isn't,"  said  Fanita  decid- 
edly. 

Paez  grunted. 

""Don't  grunt.    Do  you  think  she  is?" 

'"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  said. 

'"What  do  you  think,  Paez?  You  can  think," 
she  insisted  pettishly. 

"I  am  sure  she  isn't  as  pretty  as  you,"  said 
Paez,  looking  up  and  smiling. 

"I  don't  like  her,"  said  the  girl,  not  entirely 
.mollified. 

"You're  not  jealous,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

*'Of  what?    You  don't  know  her." 

"On  account  of  Pasco,  I  mean.  She  lives 
down  there." 

"Oh,  you  funny  boy!  What  do  I  care  about 
Pasco?"  she  laughed;  and  with  one  hand 
straightened  the  ruffle  of  her  red  waist.  "Pasco 
will  never  say  a  word  to  her  anyway.  That's 
the  reason  I  chose  you,"  she  added  archly. 
*'You  are  not  dumb." 

"Was  that  the  only  reason?"  asked  Paez  ten- 
derly. 

With  a  quick  glance  of  sympathy  she  stretched 
out  her  hand.  Taking  it  in  his,  he  squeezed  it 
gently. 

"Don't  be  jealous,"  he  said. 

Fanita  drew  her  hand  away. 

"Of  her!"  she  exclaimed. 

She  made  a  little  face,  and  put  her  hands  de- 


PRIDE    OF    BIRTH  77 

fiantly  on  her  hips.  It  was  at  this  moment  that 
Dolores  came  out  of  the  church.  Paez  saw  her 
at  once.  His  sweetheart,  understanding  his  ex- 
pression, glanced  contemptuously  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

"Well,  this  is  finished,"  Paez  said,  getting  up 
and  pushing  back  his  long  hair. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Fanita. 

"Out  into  the  fields,"  he  pointed  across  the 
road. 

The  girl  returned  to  her  house;  and  Paez, 
his  rake  over  his  shoulder,  watched  till  she  dis- 
appeared inside;  then  changing  his  course,  he 
followed  down  the  steep  incline  in  the  direction 
Dolores  had  gone. 

In  that  part  of  the  settlement  and  near  the 
river  there  was  one  field  hemmed  in  by  some  low 
water-loving  trees.  Thither  he  followed  a  little 
behind  Dolores  and  Pasco.  When  he  entered 
the  empty  field,  instead  of  falling  to  work,  he 
watched  the  two  others  from  behind  the  willow 
screen.  He  saw  Dolores,  after  kneeling  beside 
the  washing-stone,  roll  up  her  sleeves  and  plunge 
her  arms  into  the  river,  and  he  saw  Pasco  go 
back  some  distance  and  begin  unrolling  his  dyed 
goods  and  spreading  them  on  the  sand  to  dry. 
Then  Paez  started  towards  the  washing  pool. 
When  she  heard  him  coming  Dolores  turned  her 
head  and  smiled  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  Be- 
fore she  spoke,  she  glanced  round  over  her  other 


78      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

shoulder  to  see  how  far  away  Pasco  was  from 
them.  He  seemed  to  be  engrossed  in  his  work. 
So  she  sat  back  on  her  heels,  letting  the  heap  of 
wet  lace  lie  on  the  flat  stone,  and  said:  "Did  you 
ever  see  me  when  you  were  down  in  the  plain?" 

"No,  I  never  did,"  Paez,  leaning  on  his  rake, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  shook  his  head. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Dolores,  patting  the  grass 
beside  her  with  her  wet  hand.  "It's  nice  and 
shady  here,  and  you  ought  to  rest  before  you 
work.  It's  so  hot,  too.  Besides  we  ought  to 
get  acquainted." 

Paez,  with  an  acquiescent  smile,  laid  down 
the  rake  and  sat  beside  her. 

The  girl,  leaning  forward  once  more,  took  the 
roll  of  lace,  and  having  untwisted  it,  dipped  it 
again  into  the  running  water,  letting  her  brown 
arms  sink  in  up  to  the  elbows. 

"How  do  you  know  you  never  saw  me?"  she 
pursued  airily,  as  she  trailed  the  flimsy  white- 
ness from  side  to  side  through  the  ripples.  "You 
might  have  forgotten." 

"No,  I  shouldn't,"  he  replied  stoutly;  "I  should 
have  always  remembered  you." 

"Why?"  she  wished  to  know. 

"Why,  because  you  are  so  pretty,  I  suppose." 

She  gave  a  side  glance,  meant  for  him  to 
catch.  "Do  you  think  I  am  so  very  pretty?" 
She  drew  out  the  last  word  as  if  hesitating.  ''As 


PRIDE   OF   BIRTH  79 

pretty  as — "  she.  stopped.  "I  know  you  don't, 
though." 

"Yes,  I  do,  too/'. he  said;  "prettier." 

"Who,  then?"  Dolores  demanded,  straighten- 
ing up  again  and  turning  on  him. 

"You  know  who."  She  shook  her  head  smil- 
ing.   "Yes,  you  do.    Well,  Fanita." 

The  girl  gave  him  a  piercing  look,  full  of 
meaning;  and  then  said  artlessly:  "You  are  her 
lover,  aren't  you?  You  oughn't  to  say  such 
things.    Suppose  I  should  tell  her." 

Paez  looked  at  her  uncomfortably. 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  won't.  But  I  know 
you  are.    Pasco  told  me  so." 

She  leaned  over  to  her  task,  and  for  some  min- 
utes the  splashing  she  made  was  the  only  sound. 
At  last,  sitting  up  again,  she  raised  her  eyebrows 
at  him  knowingly,  and  with  her  teeth  on  her 
lower  lip  smiled  at  him  in  mock  reproval,  shak- 
ing her  head.  But  she  said  nothing.  As  she 
carefully  picked  apart  the  soaked  folds  of  the 
lace,  and  laid  it  out  smoothly  on  the  stone,  the 
monotonous  gurgle  of  the  water  was  the  only 
break  in  the  morning  stillness.  The  sunlight 
sifted  in  upon  them  through  the  trees. 

Finally  Paez  said  in  a  recriminatory  tone: 
"Didn't  you  have  any  lovers  down  there?" 

Dolores  laughed.    "Yes,  I  had  two." 

"Where  are  they  now?" 

"One  of  them  killed  the  other;  and  now  he's 


So      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

over  in  Las  Animas  county  waiting  for  me  to 
come." 

"Are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Dolores  carelessly. 
"I  might.  You  know  I  ought  to  marry  some  one 
with  Spanish  blood — the  most  Spanish  I  can 
get." 

"My  father  was  Mexican,"  said  Paez  feebly. 

"Castilian,  I  mean,"  she  explained;  "my  grand- 
father was  Castilian.  He  married  a  Mexican 
woman.    But  his  father  was  a  prince." 

Paez  stared  at  her  silently. 

"Yes.  He  was  brother  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
and  he  was  my  great-grandfather." 

Paez  wonderingly  grunted. 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  settling  back  comfortably 
on  her  heels,  and  looking  past  Paez;  "and  he 
lived  in  Spain,  somewhere,  where  the  King  lives. 
That  was  a  long  while  ago,  when  they  had  a 
different  King  from  the  one  now,  I  suppose,  or 
else  he  must  be  terribly  old.  My  grandfather 
was  terribly  old,  and  he's  dead.  He  lived  in  a 
palace,  the  prince  did.  We  used  to  have  a  silver 
medal  he  gave  my  grandfather's  mother — with 
the  King's  head  on  it.  He  never  came  away 
from  Spain.  But  she  came  to  Mexico  with  her 
baby.  I  guess  she  died  there.  She  used  to  be 
a  washerwoman  at  first,"  Dolores  rambled  on; 
"but  I  don't  know  whether  she  would  have 
wanted  to  be  one  after  she  lived  in  a  palace.    I 


PRIDE    OF    BIRTH  81 

believe  it  was  the  King  himself  who  sent  her  to 
Mexico."  The  girl  paused.  "So  you  see,"  she 
added,  "I  ought  to  marry  some  one  just  as  Span- 
ish as  I  can  find." 

After  a  moment,  as  she  began  carefully  to  take 
up  the  lace  from  the  rock,  Paez  said:  "Well,  I 
hope  you  won't  go  to  Las  Animas,  anyway." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  stay  here?"  she  asked 
naively,  holding  a  hand  to  him  to  help  her  up 
from  her  knees. 

"Yes,"  said  Paez  fervently,  "I  do." 

"Very  much?"  and  she  looked  at  him  from 
under  her  brows. 

"Yes,  very  much." 

"Well,  I'll  see  how  I  like  it  here,"  she  an- 
swered; and  turning  towards  Pasco,  who  was  still 
a  little  distance  away,  sitting  now  on  the  grass 
among  his  strips  of  blue  stretched  there  to  dry, 
and  who  had  his  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  them,  "I 
must  go  spread  this  in  the  sun.  You  go  and 
work  now,"  and  she  gave  him  a  sudden  push, 
which  had  almost  upset  him  into  the  stream. 
At  that  she  laughed,  as  she  strutted  away. 


IX 

A   SIGN   IN   THE   SKY 

A  FTER  vespers,  on  the  Friday  Heaven's 
/—\  choice  of  him  who  should  become  the 
■*•  ■**  Christ  was  to  be  made,  the  whole  of  San 
Rafael,  including-  Dolores,  was  gathered  in  high 
time  at  the  church  door;  and  even  after  Father 
Maria  de  Jesus  had  passed  in  through  the  yield- 
ing crowd,  they  lingered,  while  he  might  robe, 
wondering  how  the  choice  was  to  be  indicated. 

"I  believe  he  is  going  to  be  transfigured,"  de- 
clared Oestocris. 

Already  she  had  declared  that  several  times, 
each  time  looking  pointedly  at  her  son  Paez, 
with  an  expression  in  her  eyes  as  if  she  already 
saw  his  face  shine  as  the  sun  and  his  raiment 
white  as  the  light. 

"No,"  objected  Cristoke  unsympathetically, 
"there  won't  be  any  transfiguration  today.  If 
there  is  any,  it  will  come  later,  after  the  fast  has 
commenced.  I  don't  feel  as  if  anything  of  that 
kind  was  going  to  happen  today." 

"But  who  do  you  think  it  will  be,  Cristoke?" 
asked  one  dark,  gaping  youth. 

"Who  do  you  think  it  will  be?"  asked  Pan- 
chita  at  the  same  time. 

82 


A    SIGN    IN   THE    SKY  83 

They  all  spoke  subduedly,  as  people  who  were 
about  to  be  put  to  a  test. 

"I  trust  that  Our  Lady  of  Continual  Blessing 
will  grant  my  prayers.  I  have  said  five  hun- 
dred rosaries  to  her.  And  I  am  old  enough  to 
die,"  answered  Cristoke  solemnly. 

"But  why  would  he  die?"  asked  Dolores  of 
the  woman  next  her.  "What  do  you  do  to  the 
one  that  is  chosen?' 

She  had  not  heard  the  sermon;  and  down  in 
the  Valley  only  rumors  of  the  cross-bearers'  fes- 
tival had  reached  her.  But  as  she  asked,  they 
began  to  push  into  the  church,  and  she  had  no 
answer. 

Cristoke's  was  the  one  white  head  among  the 
many  dark,  shiny  polls  of  the  men  on  the  right. 
Underneath  his  seat  on  the  back  bench  (where 
he  saw  everyone,  and  everyone  would  have  to 
turn  to  see  him),  his  yellow  dog  lay  on  the  dirt 
floor.  When  there  was  a  pause  he  could  be 
heard,  now  beating  with  his  tail  on  the  ground, 
now  rhythmically  snoring. 

The  congregation  sang  the  responses  in  Latin. 
Only  one  or  two  could  read,  but  the  priest  had 
taught  them  by  heart.  They  were  so  well  prac- 
ticed in  the  beautiful  monotony  of  plain  chant, 
that  their  strong  voices,  blending  harmoniously, 
holding  well  the  long  notes,  rose  and  fell  in 
unison.  The  litanies  in  Spanish  everyone  knew. 
'This  afternoon  they  said  one  after  another  of 


84      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

them,  until  there  was  no  one  there  who  didn't 
feel  so  heartily  the  appeals  to  San  Rafael,  to  all 
the  Saints,  to  Our  Lady  of  Santa  Fe,  and  Our 
Lady  of  Perpetual  Succor,  to  the  Blessed  Spirit, 
and  to  Christ  Himself,  that  his  feelings  were  not 
shining  out  from  his  black  eyes,  at  the  last  note, 
when  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  turned  with  dignity 
towards  the  altar.  Kneeling  on  the  step  he 
reached  out  his  arms  and  rested  his  hands  on 
the  altar's  edge  as  he  prayed.  The  Penitentes 
were  all  on  their  knees;  every  eye  was  fixed  on 
the  white-robed  figure.  When  they  saw,  after 
some  space  of  silence,  a  slight  movement  of  his 
cope,  they  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  Then 
most  of  them  took  their  rosaries;  and  the 
women  sinking  back  on  their  heels,  leaned 
against  the  benches.  Everyone  said  his  beads, 
while  the  Father  in  his  clear,  deep  voice  intoned 
the  prayers. 

The  little  acolyte,  whose  brown  feet  peeped 
from  under  his  mussed  scarlet  cassock,  standing 
on  the  Gospel  side,  with  both  hands  solemnly 
and  continuously  swung  back  and  forth  a  brass 
censer  on  three  brass  chains.  Each  time  the 
censer  swung  downward  the  smoke  slipped  out 
in  a  gulp,  till  little  by  little,  there  gathered  a 
thin  gray  cloud,  through  which  the  twinkling 
rows  of  candles  and  the  wax  Christ  above  them 
showed  dimmer  and  dimmer;  while  the  heavy 


A    SIGN    IN   THE    SKY  85 

rich  odor  searched  into  every  corner  of  the  little 
church. 

In  words  of  entreaty,  but  with  a  note  in  his 
strong  voice  of  the  consciousness  of  right-doing, 
the  priest  prayed  as  volubly  as  if  he  were  not 
extemporizing.  "O  Lord,"  he  began,  "we  en- 
treat Thee  to  pour  out  the  fruitful  blessing  of 
Heaven  upon  the  pious  enterprise  about  to  be 
begun  by  a  few  of  us,  Thy  children,  to  the  honor 
of  Thy  good  Saint  the  Archangel  San  Rafael, 
and  in  memory  of  the  most  sacred  Passion  of 
Thy  Son  our  Lord.  We,  O  Father,  as  followers 
of  Christ  are  anxious,  for  the  glory  of  the  Holy 
Catholic  Church  and  for  the  everlasting  love  of 
God  and  of  His  Immaculate  Mother,  to  follow 
Him  to  eternal  bliss  before  Thy  throne,  through 
the  same  path  that  He  in  His  last  days  taught 
men  to  tread. 

"We  beseech  thee,  O  Holy  San  Rafael,  Arch- 
angel thrice  blessed,  to  send  us  down  a  sign 
which  shall  designate  who  among  us  is  worthiest 
in  the  sight  of  God,  of  that  supreme  and  mystic 
honor  of  receiving  the  sacred  Stigmata,  emblem 
of  the  ever-sacred  Passion. 

"Who  among  us,"  he  continued,  "most  de- 
serves the  marks  in  his  soles  and  in  his  palms,  the 
wound  on  his  breast,  the  crojwn  of  thorns,  and 
the  blissful  agony  and  bloody  sweat?  Tell  us, 
we  beseech  thee,  O  Patron  Father!" 

After  a  moment  the  kneeling  Penitentes  mur- 


86      THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

mured  in  chorus,  "Tell  us,  we  beseech  thee,  O 
Patron  Father!'5 

Several  of  them  looked  round  where  old  Cris- 
toke  kneeled.  His  forehead  was  wet  with  beads 
of  excitement,  his  old  eyes,  fiery  agam,  were 
fixed  above  the  head  of  the  white  figure  in  the 
incense  smoke. 

"O  Blessed  Virgin,  Mother  of  God,  we  conjure 
thee,  for  thy  Son's  sake,  to  send  us  a  sign  of 
the  Heavenly  will." 

And  all  the  Penitentes  responded: 

"We  beseech  thee,  O  Holy  Mother." 

"O  Little  Infant  Jesus,"  the  pleading  voice 
went  on,  "tell  us,  we  beseech  Thee,  who  among 
us  is  worthy." 

And  as  he  paused,  the  Penitentes  burst  out  all 
together  in  the  heartfelt  response: 

"We  beseech  Thee,  O  Little  Infant  Jesus." 

"As  Thou  sentest  down  Thy  spirit  in  tongues 
of  fire  upon  the  Twelve,  to  be  a  sign  to  all  men, 
so  do  we  beg  Thee  to*  vouchsafe  us  a  sign  to-day, 
O  Eternal  Father." 

At  the  end  of  this  cry  to  God  the  Father  the 
pleading  voice  stopped  as  if  exhausted,  and  the 
Penitentes  murmured  "Amen!" 

The  church  was  full  of  the  incense  smoke. 
All  that  could  be  seen  of  the  two  figures  in  the 
chancel  was  two  blurs,  one  red,  one  white.  The 
white  one  remained  immovable  in  front  of  the 
vaguely  twinkling  candles  of  the  altar. 


A   SIGN   IN  THE   SKY  87 

For  some  time  there  was  no  sound.  The  dark 
figures  in  the  gray  smoke  kneeled  as  immovable 
as  the  priest.  The  heavy  smell  of  the  incense  was 
so  disseminated  as  to  be  no  longer  noticeable. 
The  only  movement  that  could  be  felt  in  the 
silence  was  the  minute  click  of  prayer-beads. 
Then  the  breathing  of  so  many  tense  figures  be- 
gan to  be  heard.  One  of  the  benches  creaked. 
And  for  the  moment  after,  the  silence  seemed 
more  intense  than  ever.  But  there  was  no  sound 
that  could  be  thought  supernatural.  A  gentle 
purring  noise  succeeded — very  monotonous,  and 
so  gradual  and  natural  that  it  might  be  the  mere 
throbbing  of  the  silence. 

Of  a  sudden  there  came  a  nervous  little 
scratching  and  a  quick  bark. 

There  was  a  general  start  among  the  congre- 
gation. The  barking  ceased.  Some  one  was  evi- 
dently choking  the  dog.  This,  however,  was 
not  Cristoke,  its  master,  for  at  this  moment  he 
began  praying  aloud. 

This  second  disturbance  was  stopped  as  sud- 
denly as  it  had  arisen  by  the  voice  of  Father 
Maria  de  Jesus:  "Look,  look!  God  is  good 
to  us!" 

Seeing  him  through  the  mist  of  incense,  stand- 
ing on  the  chancel  edge,  facing  them,  his  arms 
stretched  out  toward  the  door  behind  them,  they 
all  turned.  There  was  a  general  scuffling  to  feet 
and  murmurs  of  surprise. 


88   THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

It  was  raining.  The  purring  sound  could 
now  be  plainly  heard,  both  on  the  roof  above 
and  on  the  ground  outside.  There  was  a  cooler 
feeling  in  the  air  and  through  the  doorway  the 
rain  could  be  seen  falling  steadily* — a  fresher, 
moister  gray  than  the  cloying  atmosphere  of 
the  church. 

"God  is  pleased  with  our  efforts,"  declared  the 
priest;  "since  we  have  begun  the  preparation 
for  our  sacrifice  by  cultivating  our  fields,  he 
sends  us  rain  to  show  his  pleasure  as  well  as  to 
aid  us." 

They  all  stood  gazing  into  the  rain;  but  there 
was  no  expression  of  responsive  feeling.  Clearly 
this  sign  was  not  the  sign  that  had  been  asked. 

The  priest  himself,  standing  quite  still,  looked 
over  the  heads  of  his  people,  his  lips  moving  in 
prayer.  As  the  rain  lightened  and  the  smoke 
inside  began  to  settle,  he  could  distinguish  far 
away  in  the  east  the  shapes  of  the  Sangre  de 
Cristo  mountains — a  long  waving  line  on  the 
horizon,  rising  at  one  end  to  the  superb  mass  of 
Blanca.  Through  the  last  scattering  drops,  the 
oblique  sunshine,  purplish  and  misty,  could  be 
seen  far  down  the  Valley.  The  violet  haze  of 
evening  was  settling  over  the  lowlands.  Above 
the  mountains,  against  the  coolest  blue  sky  seen 
for  weeks  there  were  clouds.  As  he  looked, 
mountains  and  clouds  alike  began  to  be  pink 
with  the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun.    The  pink 


A   SIGN   IN  THE   SKY  89 

growing  rosy,  flushed  up  into  the  sky;  deeper 
and  richer  it  warmed  until  finally  it  blazed  like 
red  fire  on  the  crest  of  the  mountains. 

"There,"  Penitentes!"  cried  the  priest,  "the 
Lord  has  sent  us  another  token.  There  is  the 
Sangre  de  Cristo,  the  very  blood  of  Christ  spilt 
for  our  sins." 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  scarlet  acolyte,  who 
caught  hold  of  the  rope  hanging  near,  and  in 
a  moment  the  church  bell  was  clanging  above 
their  heads. 


X 

DOLORES  WAITS 

EVEN  in  the  rainy  season  it  is  necessary  to 
irrigate  the  San  Luis  Valley;  and  as  no 
one  was  yet  quite  sure  whether  the  rainy 
season  had  begun  or  whether  the  afternoon's 
shower  had  been  an  isolated  phenomenon,  the 
work  begun  on  the  disused  ditches  was  to  be 
prosecuted. 

In  any  case,  though  no  one  doubted  that  the 
rainfall  indicated  the  heavenly  approval  of  their 
labors,  yet  it  was  not  the  response  so  anxiously 
expected.  Father  Chucho  could  give  no  satis- 
factory answer  as  to  what  must  next  be  done. 
He  was  not  decided  himself;  and  at  all  events 
a  few  days'  waiting  would  give  opportunity  for 
any  divine  message  that  might  be  individually 
vouchsafed.  They  need  not  so  soon  fall  back 
on  a  choice  by  ordinary  human  means. 

The  afternoon's  meeting  was  the  inevitable 
topic  of  the  evening's  conversation.  A  company 
of  a  dozen  or  so  was  gathered  in  the  house  of 
Oestocris  to  discuss  it  under  the  leadership  of 
that  holy  woman.  As  they  sat  solemnly  confabu- 
lating in  the  dark,  it  was  easy  for  Paez  to  slip 
out  unnoticed,  and  taking  up  his  spade,  to  set 
forth  under  the  moonlight  towards  the  river. 

The  nearly  full  moon  swam  high  in  a  cloud- 

90 


DOLORES  WAITS  91 

less  black  heaven.  So  it  was  fairly  light.  Paez 
paused  opposite  the  open  door  of  Panchita's 
house.  By  the  light  inside  he  could  catch  sight 
of  one  or  two  people.  He  strained  his  eyes  for 
some  time  before  a  dark  form  coming  out  into 
the  night,  approached  him. 

"Is  that  you,  Lola?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Dolores. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here?" 

"I  saw  you.  Panchita  is  asleep  and  Pasco 
didn't  say  anything.  So  I  came  out  to  see  you. 
Where  are  you  going?" 

"Down  by  the  river." 

"I  will  come,  too,"  said  Dolores,  looking  up 
into  his  face. 

Though  Pasco  may  not  have  said  anything, 
yet  as  they  started  off  through  the  large,  still 
night,  they  saw  him  come  out  and,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  look  around.  When  he  saw 
them,  he  stood  gazing  at  them  a  moment  or  two, 
then  turned  and  went  in  again. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  little  gur- 
gle of  laughter;  "I  like  you  better." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked,  when 
they  were  down  under  the  stunted  trees,  where 
they  could  feel  grass  beneath  their  bare  feet  and 
hear  the  little  river's  murmur. 

"I  came  out  to  work  on  the  ditch,"  Paez  said 
doubtfully. 

"Well,  sit  down  and  rest  awhile,"  she  coaxed. 


92      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

'There's  an  awfully  good  place  here,  where  you 
can  reach  down  and  dabble  your  hands  in  the 
water.  See!"  and  she  sat  and  made  room  for 
him  beside  her. 

"Yes,  I  know  this  place,"  he  answered,  throw- 
ing himself  down  on  the  grass;  "how  did  you 
find  it?" 

"Oh,  I  discovered  it  myself." 

In  the  moonlight  that  filtered  in  between  the 
trees  he  could  make  out  her  face  just  enough  to 
see  her  smile.  He  lay  with  his  head  propped  on 
his  hands,  staring  up  at  her. 

Dolores  distractedly  plucked  up  three  or  four 
little  bunches  of  grass,  and  threw  them  at  him. 
He  shook  his  head  to  get  the  grass  off  his  face. 

"Don't  go  away,  will  you?"  he  said  to  her  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  yet  whether  I  shall  or  not," 
she  answered  shrilly,  with  a  wilful  toss  of  her 
head;  "I  don't  like  it  so  very  much  here,  that  I 
should  stay  forever." 

"You  don't  like  it?"  repeated  Paez  sorrow- 
fully. 

"No,  I  don't;  why  should  I?  Down  there  I 
always  had  some  one  who  was  fond  of  me,  and 
here — well,  Pasco  is  as — as  wooden  as  a  statue 
in  a  church — and — " 

"I  am  fond  of  you,  Lola!"  he  said  fervidly. 

"Ho!"  laughed  Lola;  "you've  got  that  girl 
with  the  Indian  name.  You're  always  hanging 
around  her.    I  don't  like  her,  not  a  bit." 


DOLORES   WAITS  93 

"No,  I'm  not,  Lola,"  he  insisted;  "you  haven't 
been  here  very  long,  and  I — I  liked  her  pretty 
well  before  you  came.  But  I  don't  hang  around 
her  now  any  more  than  I  can  help." 

'That's  the  trouble  with  you,"  she  went  on, 
bitterly  reproachful;  "you're  so  helpless;  you're 
afraid  of  your  mother;  you're  afraid  of  Fanita; 
you're,  afraid  of  everything.    I  can  see  that." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  "I'm  not;  I'm  not 
afraid  of  Fanita." 

Dolores  was  silent  for  a  time.  Again  plucking 
up  handfuls  of  grass,  this  time  by  the  roots,  she 
flung  them  now  into  the  water,  angrily,  and 
stared  out  with  fixed  eyes  upon  the  ripples  float- 
ing along  one  after  another  in  the  moonlight. 
Finally  she  turned  again  to  the  patient  Paez,  and 
asked  in  her  natural  voice,  caressingly:  "Do  you 
care  more  for  me  than  you  do  for  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paez,  scarcely  above  a  breath. 

"If  you  did,"  mused  the  girl  aloud,  "and  if  she 
wasn't  here,  there  might  be  some  good  of  my 
staying.  Though  I  don't  see  what  difference  it 
makes  if  she  is  here,  if  you  like  me  better." 

"I  do,"  he  said  again. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  tinge 
of  cynicism;  "and  besides,  suppose  they  should 
choose  you  for  the  Christ." 

Paez  at  first  made  no  reply. 

"Hm?"  Dolores  insisted  on  an  answer. 


94      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"I  don't  think  they  will,"  said  Paez;  "there 
are  plenty  of  others." 

"Yes;  there's  Pasco.  He'd  make  a  lovely  one," 
she  laughed  mockingly. 

OPaez  laughed  too,  but  as  if  merely  because 
she  was  laughing. 

"You  will  stay,  Lola?"  he  said  again. 

She  looked  where  she  could  see  his  eyes  fixed 
on  her,  the  whites  shining  in  the  stray  moon- 
beams. 

"They  used  to  be  so  good  to  me  down  there." 

"I  will  be  good  to  you,  Lola." 

"I  had  two  lovers  down  there,"  she  argued 
reminiscently. 

"Why  do  you  want  two,  Lola?"  he  said. 
"One's  enough;  you  can  only  marry  one." 

"If  I  stay,  you  would  have  two,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"No,  Lola,"  he  persisted  with  fervor;  "don't 
say  that.    Only  you." 

"Well,"  she  considered  seriously,  "I  know  if 
I  go,  she  will  get  you,  unless — unless  you  are  the 
Christ." 

"Then  you  won't  go,"  he  sat  up  and  took  her 
hand  in  one  of  his. 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  deter- 
mination. 

He  squeezed  her  hand  with  the  warmth  of  feel- 
ing; but  her  return  of  the  pressure  spoke,  though 
not  to  him,  more  of  the  strength  of  fixed  de- 
cision. 


XI 

HE    COMES    AND    GOES 

IT  WAS  this  very  same  night  that  Cristobal 
came  riding  along  in  the  moonlight  towards 
San  Rafael.  He  wore  his  new  light  checked 
suit,  which  made  him  a  rather  conspicuous  ob- 
ject; and  as  he  particularly  wished  not  to  be  gen- 
erally seen,  he  dismounted  where  the  plain  begins 
to  rise  toward  the  Penitente  village,  and  going 
off  the  road  into  the  little  clump  of  woods  by  the 
river,  he  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree  there.  A  few 
minutes  earlier  he  might  have  heard  the  voices 
of  Dolores  and  Paez;  but  by  this  time  they  had 
gone  up  again  to  the  settlement. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  he  made  his  way  up  the 
hill,  keeping  a  keen  lookout,  and  stopping  as 
soon  as  he  came  near  to  the  first  light,  which  was 
in  the  house  of  Panchita.  He  could  not  see 
Dolores  sitting  alone  there  in  the  dark  of  the 
porch.  While  he  hesitated  as  to  what  his  next 
move  should  be,  he  saw  the  first  living  being 
that  had  yet  been  visible,  in  the  quiet  place.  It 
was  a  woman  moving  rather  stealthily  across  the 
open;  and  taking  the  chance  that  some  resem- 
blance in  height  and  gait  afforded  him,  he  went 
a  step  or  two  nearer,  and  with  his  hands  to  his 
mouth  trumpetwise,  called  gently,  "Lola!" 

95 


96      THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

The  figure  abruptly  halted. 

"Lola!"  he  called  again  in  the  same  tone. 
Though  she  had  started  to  move  on  again,  she 
now  apparently  changed  her  mind,  and  turned 
towards  him. 

He  waited,  withdrawing  indeed  a  little  farther 
into  the  shadow.  As  she  came  to  him,  he  again 
exclaimed,  "Lola,"  and  then  realizing  his  mis- 
take, said,  "Oh,  you  are  not  Lola,"  at  the  same 
instant  that  Fanita  peering  at  him  asked:  "Who 
are  you?" 

"I  am  Cristobal,"  he  said.  "Is  Lola  here?  I 
want  to  speak  to  her." 

"Lola?"  she  repeated.  She  was  now  close  to 
him. 

"Yes,"  he  insisted  in  low  tones; "Dolores.  Isn't 
she  here?    Father  Chucho  brought  her  up  here." 

"She  is  here,"  answered  the  girl  in  a  hard  sharp 
voice;  and  then  suddenly  changing  her  tone,  re- 
peated in  her  suavest  way,  "Yes,  she  is  here." 

Neither  of  them,  where  they  stood,  could  see, 
in  the  porch  of  Panchita's  house  Dolores  lean- 
ing against  a  post,  stretching  her  head  toward 
them  in  the  effort  to  hear  what  they  were  saying. 

"Listen,"  said  the  man  impressively;  "will  you 
tell  her  I  am  here?  Cristobal;  and  promise  not  to 
tell  any  one  else.     I  thought  you  were  she." 

Fanita  looked  at  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded  again. 

"Cristobal,"  he  insisted;   "I  am  her  lover.    I 


HE    COMES    AND    GOES  97 

am  come  to  take  her  away.  Father  Chucho 
would  not  let  me  have  her,  and  so  I  don't  want 
him  to  know.    But  you  will  help  me,  won't  you?" 

He  laid  a  supplicating  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"You  won't  tell  any  one.  You  are  young 
yourself.  You  have  a  lover  probably  yourself. 
You  will  help  us." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "I  will  fetch  her.  But 
look,  first — "  she  cast  a  nervous  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  and  then  went  on:  "Let  me  tell  you. 
Are  you  sure  she  will  go?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  and  she  could  see  his  teeth,  white 
in  the  moonlight,  as  he  smiled  in  assurance.  "I 
am  her  lover.  She  will  come.  Father  Chucho 
would  not  let  her  before.    That  is  why." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl;  "but — "  and  she  lowered 
her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  in  her  turn 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  "she  has  another  lover 
here." 

She  could  feel  him  start  at  this  intelligence. 
Looking  eagerly  into  his  set  face1 — for  he  knew 
he  must  be  quiet  therei — she  sighed,  nodding  her 
head  in  asseveration.  "Yes,"  she  repeated;  "and 
she  might  want  to  stay  and  marry  him." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested;  "she  will  marry  me. 
Lola!     Anunciato  is  dead;   and  she  promised." 

In  a  moment  the  girl  burst  forth  again,  speak- 
ing with  earnestness  that  betrayed  her  utmost 
feeling:  "Take  her  away.  Make  her  go  with 
you." 


98   THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

"Ah,"  said  Cristobal  in  a  long  exclamation  of 
comprehension,  "he  is  your  lover." 

Fanita  looked  down  and  said  nothing. 

"I  will  make  her  go,"  he  said  with  an  energy 
meant  more  to  reassure  himself  than  her.  "Go 
find  her.    Tell  her  I  am  here." 

"She  shall  not  have  him,"  cried  the  girl,  rais- 
ing her  voice,  with  the  vehemence  of  her  passion. 

"Sh — h,"  warned  Cristobal,  glancing  behind 
her. 

She  dropped  her  voice  again,  declaring,  "I  will 
have  him  crucified  sooner." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  agitation  the 
phrase  struck  Cristobal.  He  looked  question- 
ingly  at  her;  and  presently  nodding,  remarked: 
"Oh,  yes.  You  are  the  Penitentes.  And  you 
do  it?    You  will  do  it  this  fall  again?" 

"I  will — sooner!"  repeated  Fanita,  taking  the 
question  to  herself.  "It  is  time  almost  to  choose 
the  Christ." 

"Go,  go,"  Cristobal  hurriedly  exclaimed; 
"somebody  might  see  me.  I  will  take  her  away. 
You  will  not  need  to — " 

The  girl  with  a  stately  turn,  started  off  in 
silence  towards  the  house  of  Panchita.  Follow- 
ing her  with  his  eyes  he  saw  another  girl  come 
out  of  the  porch. 

Dolores,  on  her  part,  though  she  had  not  been 
positive  that  she  recognized  her  old  lover  in  this 
light-suited  person,  and  was  not  near  enough  to 


HE    COMES    AND    GOES  99 

hear  even  the  sound  of  his  voice,  had  yet  watched 
him  closely  during  his  conversation  with  Fanita; 
and  when  at  the  end  she  saw  this  girl,  who  had 
never  yet  spoken  to  her,  turn  and  come  towards 
the  house,  Dolores  slipped  through  the  shadow 
and  suddenly  appeared,  as  if  she  had  just  come 
from  inside.  She  left  the  porch  and  went  toward 
Fanita,  who  coming  straight  to  her  said,  con- 
strainedly: "He  wants  to  see  you.  Go  over 
there." 

She  waved  her  arm  towards  the  motionless 
gray  figure. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Dolores  in  a  cold,  careless 
manner. 

"He  has  come  to  take  you  away.  It  is  Cris- 
tobal." 

Dolores  looked  at  her  closely,  trying  to  read 
her  face  in  the  wan  light.  Then  with  a  sneer, 
"Aren't  you  glad?"  she  said  icily,  and  strutted 
away. 

"Who  are  you?  Cristobal!"  she  called  softly 
but  indifferently,  as  she  approached.  When  a 
yard  or  two  from  him,  she  stopped  short,  set  her 
hands  on  her  hips,  and  laid  back  her  head  in  a 
laugh.  "Well,  where  did  you  get  those  clothes?" 
she  demanded,  ceasing  to  laugh  as  suddenly  as 
she  had  begun.  "I  never  should  have  known 
you.  And  your  mustache  gone,  too!  Ugh!  You 
looked  horrid  without  it." 

He  slid  a  step  or  two  nearer,  and  in  low  tones 


IOO    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

into  her  ear  began:  "It  was  all  only  for  you, 
everything "  When  she  interrupted  by  turn- 
ing abruptly  from  him. 

He  ended  his  sentence  in  a  half- swallowed 
Spanish  oath. 

Standing  with  her  back  to  Cristobal,  "Look 
here,  you  girl;  whatever  your  name  is,"  Dolores 
called  to  Fanita,  who  was  plainly  to  be  seen 
hovering  about  not  far  away.  "You  go  home. 
Go  away  and  don't  be  listening  to  us." 

She  laughed  as  she  saw  how  swiftly  the  dark 
figure  turned  and  hurried  away  towards  the 
houses.  Giving  her  attention  once  more  to  Cris- 
tobal, she  coolly  demanded:  "What  was  she  tell- 
ing you  about  me?" 

He  was  not  ready  with  an  answer. 

"Oh,  I  know  she  was,"  the  girl  said.  "What 
else  could  you  have  been  talking  so  long  about? 
Unless  you  were  making  love  to  her " 

"Lola!"  he  exclaimed  with  reproach.  "You 
know  I  came  here  only  for  you,  only  because  I 
love  you.  That  is  why  I  put  on  these  clothes 
and  shaved  my  face  to  look  like  a  woman,  all  for 
you,  for  a  disguise  so  I  could  stay  around  near 
here  safely,  and  be  able  to  come  up  here  and  get 
you  again.     And  now  I've  come." 

Dolores  smothered  a  yawn;  she  made  no 
answer. 

"I've  come  all  the  way  over  from  Janoso,  over 
by  Stamford.    I've  been  living  over  there.     But 


HE    COMES    A^D    $0,£;$j  ICI 

I  can't  stop  thinking  of  you,  Lola;  so  I  have 
come  to  get  you.  It  is  dangerous,  and  I  have 
to  come  at  night.  You  will  come  with  me,  won't 
you?" 

As  she  stood  there  calmly  with  her  arms 
folded,  she  fell  to  patting  her  elbows  with  her 
hands  in  the  manner  of  one  who  is  bored;  and 
looked  around  in  the  air  aimlessly. 

"Lola,  I  shot  him  for  your  sake.  That  is  why 
all  the  priests  refuse  to  forgive  me,  and  say  I 
will  go  to  hell,  because  I  am  unrepentant,  be- 
cause I  did  it  for  you.  That  is  why  I  ride  around 
here  in  the  Valley  in  danger  of  my  life;  for  you." 

He  paused:  "Lola!"  desperately;  "you  prom- 
ised!" 

Yet  she  made  no  answer. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  shook 
her  gently, — though  less  gently  than  he  thought. 
She  squirmed  away  from  him. 

"Lola,"  he  said,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Dolores. 

"You  don't  care  for  me  now  any  more?" 

"Not  when  you're  cross." 

"No,  Lola,  I'm  not  cross,"  he  said  coaxingly, 
"I  won't  be  cross.  I  love  you  too  much.  I  was 
always  good  to  you,  wasn't  I?  Come  away  from 
these  people  that  crucify.  It  is  no  good  place 
for  you.    Won't  you?" 

Again  a  pause,  and  again  he  said:  "You  prom- 
ised." 


:pri    .FHE   FENITJ^TJlS   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"I  don't  remember  any  promise,"  she  said 
hurriedly  and  decisively;  "I  only  remember  I 
did  say  I  would  never  marry  a  murderer." 

He  fell  back  from  her  a  step,  and  said,  with 
his  voice  trembling,  "You  have  a  lover  here!" 

"She  told  you  that!"  said  the  girl  simply,  with 
a  shrug. 

"Is  it  true?" 

"How  can  I  help  who  is  my  lover?"  she  de- 
manded testily. 

"You  can;  you " 

"Do  you  own  me?"  she  went  on,  interrupting 
him  angrily.  "Suppose  I  have  a  lover  here;  does 
it  hurt  you?  I  had  two  before,  didn't  I?  I  can't 
help  it  how  many  I  have;  and  it  seems  to  worry 
you  and  that  girl  much  more  than  it  does  me." 
She  laughed  mockingly. 

Cristobal,  still  controlling  himself,  still  im- 
ploring, asked:  "Are  you  going  to  marry  him, 
Lola?" 

"I  won't  marry  him  unless  I  want  to,"  she 
declared.  "But  I  won't  let  him  be  crucified, 
either." 

"Then  come  with  me  and  we  won't  let  him 
be  crucified." 

"Ho!    How  can  you  help  it?"  she  scoffed. 

"I  can!  I  can!"  he  insisted  earnestly.  "I  know 
how  I  can." 

"And  then  he  would  marry  her,"  considered 
Dolores.    "Ah,  I  hate  her!" 


HE    COMES    AND    GOES  103 

"Lola,  come;  you  love  him  more  than  me?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"Do  you?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"Lola!" 

"Oh,  go  away!"  she  cried  impatiently,  "I  am 
not  going  with  you;  and  I'll  marry  who  I  please. 
If  you  must  know,  I  do  like  him  better.  Now, 
let  me  alone." 

She  turned  from,  him  on  her  heel  and  started 
away.  With  an  impulse  of  forlorn  hope  he  sprang 
after  her,  seizing  one  of  her  arms.  Dolores  thus 
arrested,  startled, — screamed,  though  not  very 
loud. 

"No,  no,  Lola!"  he  breathed  over  her  shoul- 
der; "I  won't  hurt  you;  but  come.  No  one 
loves  you  like  me." 

"Unless  you  want  Father  Chucho  to  see  you," 
Dolores  warned  him  in  a  low  tone  all  on  one 
note,  "you  had  better  go ;  I  see  him  coming." 

"I  don't  mind  Father  Chucho,"  he  declared, 
pulling  her  backwards  with  him,  however;  "but 
you  must  come." 

"No,  I  will  not,"  she  said,  low  but  violently; 
and  she  struggled. 

He  continued  pulling  her  backwards;  and  all 

at  once  she  called:   "Father!    Father  Chucho!" 

Raising  his  eyes  suddenly,  Cristobal  could  see 

that  a  little  figure  in  the  moonlight  some  way  off 


;i;b4    f  HE  •p%8li&N$ES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

had  halted.  He  put  a  hand  over  her  mouth,  as 
she  called  again. 

This  time  the  figure  began  to  come  towards 
them,  running. 

Cristobal,  after  making  an  ineffectual  attempt 
to  lift  the  resisting  girl  in  his  arms,  let  go  of  her; 
and  as  she  sprang  away  clear  of  him,  he  turned 
and  started  down  the  hill.  Father  Maria  de 
Jesus,  who  since  he  had  seen  the  light  suit  be- 
fore, at  once  recognized  it,  called  after  him  his 
name,  "Cristobal,"  in  tones  so  peremptory  that 
Cristobal,  despite  himself,  halted  a  moment. 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  cried  the  priest,  "that 
you  dare  not  look  me  in  the  face." 

Whereupon  the  other  deliberately  turned  back 
and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

The  Father  continued:  "How  can  I  make  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?  Again  and  again  you  do 
exactly  what  I  have  told  you  not  to  do." 

Cristobal  had  been  standing  there  rather  irres- 
olutely, glancing  in  crestfallen  wise  from  Dolores 
to  the  priest.  Of  a  sudden  his  anger  burst  forth, 
and  he  answered  ferociously:  "What  business 
have  you,  anyway,  telling  me  what  to  do  and  not 
to  do?  You  are  not  my  priest.  I  should  have 
a  much  better  priest  than  a  little  crucifier  like 
you." 

Father  Chucho's  righteous  wrath  also  blazed 
up.  "Go  away  from  my  village,"  he  commanded, 
pointing  out  over  the  plain  below;   "and  never 


HE    COMES    AND    GOES  105 

come  back.  I  am  tired  of  you.  I  have  tried  to 
help  you " 

"I  do  what  I  choose,"  blurted  Cristobal;  "I 
don't  leave  for  you;  but  because  I  want  to." 

"Leave,  for  whatever  reason,"  repeated  the 
priest  firmly. 

Dolores  watched  each  in  turn  as  he  spoke,  her 
eyes  glowing  with  admiration. 

"Don't  be  too  free  and  easy  with  your  village," 
cried  Cristobal  back  at  him,  as  he  went  slowly 
down  towards  the  river.  "Decent  people  are 
ashamed  of  you,  too;  crucifiers!" 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  made  no  answer  to 
this;  but  stood  yet  peering  down  into  the  wan 
moonlight,  in  whose  thin  obscurity  the  light 
form  of  the  retiring  intruder  vanished  as  if 
melted  away. 

A  voice  came  back  again,  from  nearer  than 
seemed  possible  considering  the  speaker  could 
not  be  seen.  It  cried  out  in  the  night:  "Go  on, 
go  on  with  your  murder.  God  bless  you! 
Decent  people  are  ashamed  of  you." 

This  was  the  last  they  heard. 

The  priest  waited  for  some  time,  standing 
motionless.  Then  he  murmured,  "God  forgive 
him!"  To  Dolores  he  said:  "I  am  glad  I  hap- 
pened to  be  near.  You  did  right  not  to  go  with 
him.     He  is  a  very  wicked,  unrepentant  man." 

"Yes,"  answered  Dolores. 


XII. 

CONTRARY  VISIONS 

WHEN  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  left  the 
church  after  mass  the  next  morning, 
he  said  kindly  to  the  wistful  few  that 
hung  round  the  door,  "Go  to  your  work  before 
it  is  too  hot.  I  haven't  decided  on  anything  yet. 
To-morrow  will  be  Sunday  and  then  we  will  rest. 
But  the  Lord  has  not  spoken  to  me  yet  nor 
given  me  any  new  light.  Has  He  to  any  of 
you?" 

No  one  answered.  But  Oestocris,  who  gazed 
at  him  with  solemn  bleary  eyes  from  the  edge  of 
the  little  crowd,  nodded  her  white  head  seriously, 
either,  it  might  be,  in  answer  or  in  confirmation, 
of  his  words.  But  she  said  nothing;  and  started 
towards  her  house  even  before  the  Father  to- 
wards his. 

He  turned  off  at  the  little  brown  adobe  hut 
where  Cristoke  lived.  As  there  was  no  one 
in  the  porch  he  went  inside.  There  was  no  one 
there,  either.  So,  after  looking  into  both  dirty 
rooms  and  calling  the  dog,  who*  didn't  respond, 
he  went  out  again. 

He  started  towards  the  fields.  It  was  already 
hot  and  getting  hotter  every  minute.  The 
ground  was  as  warmly  dry  as  if  there  had  never 

106 


CONTRARY  VISIONS  107 

been  rain,;  not  a  cloud  in  a  burnished  sky  an- 
nounced more.  Rosary  in  hand,  he  made  across 
the  road  and  through  the  dry  gravelly  ditch,  and 
came  to  a  field  where  several  men  and  women 
were  languidly  scraping  the  rich  but  burned 
soil.  Each  seemed  to  work  independently  of  the 
others;  two  had  stopped  and  were  standing  erect, 
saying  their  beads.  Though  none  of  them  spoke, 
those  that  noticed  the  Father  bowed  their  heads 
to  him. 

"Where  is  Cristoke?"  he  asked  the  nearest 
man. 

The  man  gave  a  grunt  expressing  ignorance. 

A  woman  leaning  on  her  rake  beside  him, 
stretched  an  arm  with  its  blue  sleeve  rolled  to 
the  elbow,  to  point  towards  the  next  field.  The 
priest  looked;  but  already  such  was  the  glare 
and  the  steaming  heat  that  objects  could  not  be 
made  out  at  much  distance;  and  while  the  whole 
horizon  trembled,  there  was  nothing  that  seemed 
actually  to  move.  However,  he  started  in  that 
direction.  As  he  walked  over  the  rough  ground 
the  first  thing  to  assert  itself  was  the  line  of  foot- 
hills that  bound  that  side  of  the  Valley.  They 
began  to  take  on  a  cool  green  form  above  the 
warm  moist  blue  line  of  mirage.  Then  a  wooden 
cross  began  to  start  out  of  the  background  and 
to  assume  a  gaunt  black  shape.  It  was  a  rough 
cross,  higher  than  a  man  and  with  wide  spread- 
ing- arms.    As  he  came  nearer  some  dark  thing 


108    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

on  the  tan-colored  ground  in  front  of  the  cross 
finally  proved  to  be  a  person  kneeling  there. 

A  yellow  dog  came  wriggling  towards  him, 
whining  and  fawning  and  turning  up  beseeching 
eyes.  It  ran  over  his  bare  feet,  and  when  he 
halted,  set  first  to  licking  them  and  then  to  pull- 
ing with  its  teeth  at  his  robe. 

The  person  on  the  ground  was  Cristoke.  His 
spade  was  stuck  upright  into  the  earth  near  him; 
and  he  was  fallen  back  on  his  heels  with  his 
arms  stretched  out  on  either  side, — like  Saint 
Francis  receiving  the  Stigmata.  His  face  was 
as  much  transfigured  with  rapture  as  if  he,  too, 
were  receiving  some  such  divine  communication ; 
and  his  wondering,  protruding  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  bare  cross. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  followed  his  gaze  to  the 
cross;  but  in  vain  he  studied  the  rough  wood- 
work to  see  what  the  other  could  see  there. 
Cristoke  took  no  notice  of  him.  His  set  look 
was  that  of  one  hypnotized;  the  priest  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  eagerly;  "is  it  a  vision 
you  see?" 

The  old  man  brought  one  withered  arm  slowly 
round  till  it  pointed  to  the  cross;  while  the  other 
through  very  fatigue  dropped  to  his  side.  His 
brown  lips  never  ceased  moving  in  prayer. 

"Don't  you  see  him?"  he  replied  in  a  trem- 


CONTRARY  VISIONS  109 

bling,  hardly  audible  voice.  "There!  on  the 
cross,  San  Rafael." 

Dropping  to  his  knees  the  priest  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  fervently  again  and  again. 

"No,"  he  said  hoarsely,  staring  with  all  his 
eyes  at  the  black  cross;  "I  don't  see." 

"San  Rafael,"  muttered  Cristoke,  "crucified 
in  glory." 

The  dog  had  gone  and  lain  down  on  his  belly 
a  few  feet  away.  With  his  wet,  narrow  tongue 
hanging  out,  he  curiously  regarded  the  two 
kneeling  figures,  cocking  his  head  on  one  side. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  stared  and  stared. 

"O  God!"  he  cried,  suddenly  dropping  his 
head  on  his  chest  and  clasping  his  hands,  "let 
me  see  too." 

"Make  me  see,  make  me  see!"  he  wailed, 
shaking  his  clasped  hands  back  and  forth,  and 
repeating  his  supplication  over  and  over  till  his 
voice  broke  into  a  dry  sob,  and  tears  began  to 
run  down  his  cheeks. 

Cristoke,  his  eyes  always  on  the  cross,  oblivi- 
ous of  the  other,  kept  on  muttering  his  prayers, 
though  he  sank  down  lower  and  lower  on  his 
heels. 

"No,"  sighed  the  priest,  swallowing  his  sobs, 
"I  can't  see  him.  I  can't.  O  God,  why  am  I 
not  worthy,  too?" 

Silently  now,  but  breathing  fast  and  loud,  he 
continued   to   gaze  mournfully   on   the  empty 


110    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

cross.  At  last  he  also  murmured  a  short  prayer, 
and  then  signed  himself  on  the  brow  and  the 
breast. 

He  remained  on  his  knees  till  the  trembling 
old  man  by  his  side  little  by  little  lost  the  fixed- 
ness and  the  light  out  of  his  wrinkled  face.  By 
degrees  Cristoke  ceased  to  mutter.  His  eyes 
became  dull  again.  By  and  by  the  priest  turned 
to  him  and  said  in  a  whisper:  'Tell  me  about 
him.    How  did  he  look?'' 

"His  face  was  all  bright  and  moving,"  said 
Cristoke,  "it  hurt  my  eyes.  He  had  a.  gold  crown 
on;  and  a  red  robe;  and  incense  went  up  all 
the  time." 

"Incense?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  made  the  clouds  round  his 
head.  See!  they're  there  yet,"  he  pointed  up 
into  a  sky  that  was  unbroken  blue. 

"I  smelt  the  incense,"  he  said  simply. 

"How  did  he  come?"  asked  the  priest. 

"I  was  here  digging,  or  I  was  going  to  dig. 
And  when  I  looked  at  the  cross  he  was  there 
on  it.  I  knew  it  was  San  Rafael,  because  he 
looked  like  the  picture  in  the  church, — at  first, 
before  he  got  bright.  And  I  knew  it  couldn't 
be  Our  Lord,  because  he  didn't  have  the  crown 
of  thorns.  This  was  a  gold  crown,  like  Our 
Lady  of  Santa  Fe." 

"Did  he — did  he  say  anything?"  the  priest 
asked  keenly. 


CONTRARY  VISIONS  ill 

Cristoke  shook  his  head  slowly.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  added  nothing  more. 

Then:  "He  didn't  move.  Only  the  incense 
went  up;  and  before  he  went  away  he  was  all 
covered  with  it." 

The  priest  rose  from  his  knees;  the  dog,  jump- 
ing up,  too,  began  to  wag  all  over.  After  gazing 
silently  for  some  time  at  the  cross,  Father  Maria 
de  Jesus  stooped,  and  taking  the  old  man  under 
the  armpits,  lifted  him  as  reverently  as  Mary 
lifts  Elizabeth  in  pictures  of  the  Visitation. 

'This  is  a  sign  at  last,"  said  the  priest  half  to 
himself. 

"The  Lord  has  chosen  me,  hasn't  he?"  asked 
the  old  man  eagerly. 

"We  must  see,"  the  priest  was  guarded,  "who 
else  has  had  visions.  Come,  let's  go*  to  the 
village." 

He  took  the  old  man's  spade;  the  dog  followed 
sedately. 

As  they  passed  through  the  fields,  the  laborers 
followed  them.  Instinctively  they  turned  to 
Oestocris's  house.  The  Father  and  Cristoke 
entered  first;  behind  them  about  a  dozen  Peni- 
tentes. 

It  was  the  largest  room  in  the  hamlet,  and  the 
usual  place  for  meetings.  There  was  nothing  in 
it  but  two  colored  plaster-casts, — a  Pieta  and  a 
Crucifixion, — and  one  large  rough  cupboard.  As 
there  were  no  seats,  every  one  sat  down  on  the 


112    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

ground.  At  one  end  was  the  Father,  with  Cris- 
toke  on  one  side  of  him,  and  Oestocris,  whom 
they  had  found  weaving  a  basket,  on  the  other. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  began,  "Our  prayer 
for  a  sign  from  heaven  has  been  answered." 

The  only  response  was  several  grunts. 

At  this  moment  Paez  came  in,  followed  first 
by  Dolores  and  after  a  space  by  Fanita.  No 
one  paid  any  attention  to  them  as  they  skirted 
the  circle  and  crouched  down,  —  one  girl  on 
either  side  of  the  young  man, — in  a  corner  of  the 
gloomy  room. 

"What  was  the  sign?"  Oestocris  asked  calmly. 
"Has  Our  Lady  told  you  who  is  to  be  our 
Christ?"  There  was  a  skeptical  note  in  her 
voice. 

The  Father  recounted  to  them  the  vision  of 
Cristoke.  They  sat  as  silent  as  usual;  only 
moving  when  at  each  holy  name  he  set  them 
the  example  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross;  and 
at  the  end  of  his  recital  there  was  a  good  space 
of  silence.  Nobody  asked  any  questions;  and 
the  first  to  speak  was  again  Oestocris,  who,  in 
her  shrill  old  voice,  said:  "And  suppose  any  one 
else  had  a  message.  You  do  not  say  San  Rafael 
spoke  to  him." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"Visions  come  in  the  night  as  well  as  in  the 
morning,"  pursued  the  o-ld  woman;   "and  I  be- 


CONTRARY  VISIONS  113 

lieve  the  Holy  Mother  has  chosen  me  to  fill  her 
own  sacred  part  in  our  festival." 

Everyone  looked  not  at  her  but  at  Paez.  He, 
however,  sat  as  self-contained  as  the  rest  of  the 
solemn  circle. 

The  Father  spoke  across  the  dim  room  to  him: 
"Where  were  you  last  night?  Did  you  have  a 
vision?" 

Without  turning  his  head  Paez  glanced  at 
Dolores;  and  Fanita  saw  the  glance.  But  before 
the  young  man  need  speak,  his  mother's  voice 
again  cut  the  calmness: 

"I  am  the  one  that  had  the  message." 

All  their  eyes  shifted  to  her.  Raising  one 
hand,  she  pointed  to  the  plaster  crucifix.  Under 
its  cross  there  was  a  blue  Virgin. 

"Our  Lady  of  The  Seven  Sorrows,"  she  be- 
gan, "appeared  to  me  last  night  while  I  was 
asleep  and  said,  'Oestocris!'  and  I  said,  'Here, 
Blessed  Virgin.'  She  was  dressed  in  her  blue 
robe,  and  had  a  pair  of  glass  beads  in  her  hand, 
and  her  Sacred  Heart  on  her  bosom,  with  a 
crown  on  it  and  little  flames  out  of  the  top.  Her 
voice  was  very  soft  and  sweet,  like  the  wind; 
and  she  had  a  little  cradle  with  the  Infant  Jesus 
in  it,  all  in  gold  and  covered  with  jewels."  She 
paused  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  then 
added  in  a  lowered  voice:  "And  He  had  a  face 
just  like  my  Paez." 


114    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

This  statement  caused  a  general  grunt  of 
astonishment. 

Cristoke,  though,  was  very  calm;  he  was  even 
fondling  his  dog,  who  licked  his  fingers. 

"And  she  took  Him  out  of  the  cradle,"  con- 
tinued Oestocris,  "and  gave  Him  to  me,  and 
said,  'Take  Him;  and  wh*n  He  is  grown  give 
Him  back  to  me;'  and  I  said,  T  must  take  Him, 
Blessed  Lady?'  Because  He  was  all  covered 
over  with  jewels.  But  she  took  Him  out  and 
put  Him  in  my  arms  and  vanished  away,  and 
the  jewels  vanished,  too.  He  was  just  like  my 
Paez;  He  had  long  black  hair  and  little  ears  like 
him.  And  she  was  just  like  the  statue  there." 
Pointing  to  it  again,  she  ceased. 

The  silent  circle  sat  looking  at  one  another 
and  at  the  priest.  He  remained  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  dark  brown  wall  opposite.  His  lips 
moved  a  little  in  prayer.  The  only  sound  was 
made  by  Cristoke's  dog  twisting  himself  into  a 
more  comfortable  position. 

At  last  Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  sighing  deeply, 
said  in  a  grave  voice,  pitched  lower  than  usual, 
so  that  one  or  two  had  to  lean  forward  to  hear: 
"I  can't  tell.  God  would  not  send  us  two  visions 
contradicting  each  other.  One  of  them  must 
be  a  device  of  the  Evil  One." 

There  was  a  low  murmur.  The  old  man  and 
the  withered  old  woman  on  either  side  gave  him 


CONTRARY  VISIONS  115 

a  quick  sharp  glance.    Their  eyes  met,  and  both 
their  faces  darkened  and  their  lips  tightened. 

"We  shall  have  to  fall  back  on  choosing  by 
lot,"  said  the  priest  sadly;  "for  there  is  not  much 
time  left  to  choose.,, 


A 


XIII 

FANITA'S  CHOICE 

FTER  the  priest's  disappointed  announce- 
ment most  of  the  Penitentes,  staying  in 
their  crouching-  posture  upon  the  floor, 
began  to  say  their  beads.  There  soon  arose  a 
muffled  chant  of  a  dozen  subdued  voices  re- 
peating the  same  prayers.  It  was  very  mono- 
tonous; but  sometimes  it  became  louder  and 
almost  fierce,  and  again  soft  and  slow  and 
tender. 

Paez,  however,  after  a  moment  or  two,  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross  repeatedly  and  bowing 
on  one  knee  to  each  of  the  plaster  images,  went 
silently  out  into  the  open  air.  Fanita  and  Do- 
lores, getting  up  at  the  same  instant,  stole  round 
the  wall  of  the  dimly-lighted  room.  Each  turned 
at  the  door  to  make  a  hasty  obeisance;  and  the 
stranger  girl  found  herself  in  the  bright  warm 
porch  just  behind  the  Penitente  girl. 

Fanita  gave  the  other  a  quick  look  over  her 
shoulder — quick  but  hateful.  The  two  girls  had 
never  spoken  to  each  other  but  once;  and  they 
didn't  speak  now. 

Fanita  in  her  red  waist  flashed  down  the  open 
after  Paez,  who  was  strolling  towards  the  river, 

116 


FANITA'S  CHOICE  II? 

—  also  towards  Panchita's,  where  Dolorea 
lodged. 

Dolores  paused  an  instant,  then  with  a  frown 
and  a  pursing  of  her  lips  she  deliberately  fol- 
lowed. 

Fanita  overtaking  him,  demanded:  " Where 
are  you  going?" 

"Down  there,"  he  replied  with  a  jerk  of  hia 
head. 

"Down  to  her  house?"  said  Fanita. 

"Whose  house?" 

"That  girl's;"  she  moved  her  head  to  indicate 
Dolores. 

"Lola?    No,  I'm  not!" 

"Don't  call  her  Lola!"  exclaimed  the  girl  so 
furiously  that  he  stared  at  her,  astonished. 

"Why,  Nita!"  he  said. 

"I  hate  her!"  cried  Fanita,  seizing  his  forearm 
and  shaking  it  a  little,  and  letting  it  drop. 

Paez  fixed  his  black  eyes  on  her  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  looked  on  the  ground;  and  they  walked 
on  towards  the  river  side  by  side.  He  regarded; 
the  dirty  white  of  his  skin-tight  cotton  trousers; 
while  the  maiden  kept  her  fiery  eyes  straight 
ahead.  So  they  paced  on  till  they  reached  the 
brink  of  the  shallow  little  river. 

"Where  were  you  last  night?"  snapped  Fanita, 

Paez,  slowly  turning  his  face  toward  her,  an- 
swered almost  contemptuously:    "Down  here.'* 


Ii8    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"With  her?"  she  cried,  before  he  had  fairly 
said  the  words. 

He  hesitated,  frowning. 

"Ah!  I  saw  you  look  at  her  when  Father 
Chucho  asked  you  where  you  had  been.  Little 
devil!  she  was  with  you.  I  know  it.  You 
needn't  to  say  anything.  Why  couldn't  she  stay 
down  in  the  plain  where  she  belongs  and  carry 
on  her  love-affairs?  Why  couldn't  she  go  back 
there?  I'll  pray  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  send 
her  down  there  again,  and — and — "  even 
Fanita's  rage  hesitated  —  "and  to  hell,  after- 
wards!"  she  added  in  a  whisper. 

Though  she  flushed  nearly  as  red  as  her  waist, 
her  eyes  remained  bold  and  flashing. 

Paez  looked  at  her,  shocked. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  girl  pitifully.  "I 
thought  you  loved  me." 

"I  do,  Nita,"  he  protested. 

"You  did  till  she  came,  I  know;  but  now " 

she  bit  her  under  lip  and  shook  her  head  im- 
patiently. 

"I  do,  I  do,"  he  insisted,  taking  her  hand. 

Fanita  snatched  it  away. 

"What  did  you  say  to  her  last  night?"  she 
demanded  coldly.  "'I  do!  Idol'  Did  you  kiss 
iier?"  she  asked  with  her  eyes  half  closed. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"Well,  if  you  didn't  you  will  soon,  if  you  get 


FANITA'S  CHOICE  H9 

the  chance.  But  I  don't  intend  to  give  you  the 
chance." 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  her. 

"I  don't,"  she  repeated  firmly.  "O  Paez,"  she 
went  on  with  passion,  "I  love  you,  anyway,  and 
I  am  not  going  to  let  that  girl  have  you.  She 
isn't  a  good  girl,  she  has  lovers  down  there,  and 
up  here,  too.  She  makes  eyes  at  Pasco  as  much 
as  at  you;  and  every  other  man,  too.  She  only 
likes  you  because  you  are  a  man;  not  because 
you  are  Paez.  I  love  you.  I  have  always  loved 
you.  You  are  mine,  Paez,"  she  seized  his  hand 
and  twisted  his  fingers  affectionately;  "and  I  am 
going  to  give  you  to  the  Blessed  Virgin." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  weakly,  with 
dry  lips.     He  let  his  hand  stay  coldly  in  hers. 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  to  Our  Lady  to  be 
the  Christ." 

She  turned  to  face  him.  Her  eyes  flashed  and 
her  smile  was  a  mixture  of  love  and  triumph. 

Paez's  dark  face  paled.  His  lips  falling  apart, 
he  stared  helplessly  at  her.  Then  he  looked  all 
round  him,  as  if  frightened, — at  the  sky  and  at 
the  river.    He  breathed  hard. 

Fanita  turned  and  left  him. 


XIV 

A   LOVER'S   PROMISE 

SCARCELY  was  Fanita  gone  when  Dolores 
came  from  behind  the  little  trees.  Indeed, 
the  other  girl,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder,  saw  them  together.  She  turned  and 
spat  on  the  ground  towards  them,  but  neither 
Paez  nor  Dolores  was  watching  her. 

"Let's  go  sit  down/'  said  the  girl  quietly. 

Paez  with  a  disconsolate  look  followed  her 
through  the  trees.  Holding  their  branches  aside 
tenderly  to  let  him  pass,  she  led  the  way  to  the 
small  natural  lawn  where  they  had  sat  and  talked 
the  night  before.  Paez  threw  himself  down  in 
the  shade;  and  leaning  on  one  elbow  gazed  at 
the  opposite  bank.  The  girl,  sitting  down  near 
his  h$ad,  looked  quietly  at  his  weak,  handsome, 
frowning  face.  The  sun  came  in  glimpses 
through  the  branches;  the  only  sound  was  the 
whispering  of  the  slow  current;  there  was  a  faint 
smell  of  warm  moist  mud;  but  where  they  were 
it  was  comfortably  cool. 

Before  long  the  girl's  fixed  eyes  drew  the 
young  man's  look.  He  frowned  harder,  shook 
his  head  sympathetically,  and  sighed. 

Dolores,  with  eyebrows  raised,  half  nodded  to 

show  she  understood. 

120 


A    LOVER'S    PROMISE  121 

"She's  very  angry,  isn't  she?"  she  began  in  a 
soft  tone,  stooping  to  pull  up  a  spear  of  grass. 

He  sighed  again,  in  assent. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  away,"  said  Dolores. 

"No,  stay  here."  He  jerked  himself  on  his 
elbow  nearer  to  her. 

"I  mean  away  from  San  Rafael,"  she  ex- 
plained, looking  over  him. 

He  sat  up. 

"Because  she  doesn't  like  you,"  he  said  de- 
fiantly. 

"Because  it  makes  trouble  for  you." 

Paez  lay  down  flat  on  his  back  and  stared  up 
into  the  trees.  His  long  hair  lay  on  the  grass; 
and  Dolores  surreptitiously  moved  her  hand 
along  inch  by  inch  till  her  finger-tips  touched  it. 

Suddenly  Paez  turned  over  and  lay  on  his  face; 
and  somehow  in  doing  so,  he  got  her  hand  into 
his  two  and  put  his  cheek  down  on  them. 

"Stay  here,"  he  said. 

"No,"  whispered  Dolores,  putting  her  head 
down  near  him.    "You  come  with  me." 

"I  can't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  can't,"  he  repeated. 

"Why  not?"  said  Dolores.  "Don't  you— don't 
you  love  me?" 

"I  daren't,  I  am  afraid,"  he  breathed. 

She  drew  away  her  hand.  He  turned  over  and 
sat  up,  looking  at  her.    His  face  was  warm  and 


122    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

flushed  and  bits  of  leaves  stuck  in  his  black 
locks. 

"Your  mother  wants  you  to  be  the  Christ," 
said  Doldres,  almost  whispering. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered  in  the  same  tone. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  that?"  she  asked. 

"If  I  go  they  will  kill  me.  We  couldn't  get 
away." 

"Yes,  we  could.  Easy,"  she  replied.  "At 
night." 

"They  would  come  after  me  and  kill  me,"  he 
insisted. 

"No,  they  wouldn't.    Who?"  said  Dolores. 

"I  don't  know.    But  they  would." 

"We  will  go  to  New  Mexico.  I  will  take  care 
of  you,"  said  the  girl. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  as  if  frightened.  "No!  I 
won't." 

"Do  you  want  to  be  crucified?"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"She  wants  you  to  be,  too,"  said  Dolores. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  she  half  laughed.  "I  know  well 
enough.  She's  jealous.  She's  a  beast."  Dolores 
nearly  snarled. 

There  was  a  pause.  Paez,  who  was  picking  at 
the  grass,  coughed  a  little. 

"They  will  make  you  carry  one  of  those  big 
crosses  forty  days,"  began  the  girl  with  much 


A    LOVER'S   PROMISE  123 

distinctness;  "and  they  won't  give  you  anything 
to  eat;  will  they?" 

"Not  much/'  said  Paez  nervously. 

"You  will  have  to  stay  out  of  doors  all  the 
time,"  she  went  on,  "in  the  sun  and  in  the  rain 
every  afternoon;  and  all  night.  And  never  go 
to  bed;  never  lie  down  without  that  heavy  thing 
squeezing  you.  Some  of  them  die  that  way, 
don't  they?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paez  hoarsely. 

"And  then,  if  you  don't  die,  they  will  nail  you 
on  it,  with  nails  through  your  hands.  Ugh!" 
She  shuddered  and  closed  her  eyes.  "And  nails 
through  you  feet;"  she  leaned  over  and  touched 
his  bare  instep.  Paez  drew  it  away,  with  a  little 
cry  under  his  breath.  "Just  like  Our  Savior  on 
His  cross,  suffering  so  dreadfully.  Only  He  was 
God,  and  it  didn't  hurt  Him  so  much.  And  they'll 
stick  a  spear  in  your  side."  She  paused  and 
rubbed  her  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"Do  they  have  a  crown  of  thorns?"  she  asked. 

Paez  got  his  voice  with  an  effort.  "Yes,"  he 
said  faintly. 

"Did  you  ever  see  them  do  it?" 

He  shook  his  head,  then  nodded  it. 

"When  I  was  a  baby,"  he  said  in  a  dry  voice. 

"Did  he  scream?"  asked  the  girl. 

Paez  nodded.  His  chin  trembled,  and  there 
was  sweat  on  his  forehead.  Dolores,  putting 
her  hands  over  her  ears,  gave  a  little  moan. 


124    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Don't,"  implored  the  boy,  dragging  her  arm 
away. 

He  was  shuddering  nervously. 

"Then  come  with  me,"  begged  Dolores. 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  looked  into  his  pallid  face.  He  fixed  his 
eyes  on  hers  only  a  moment,  before  they  rest- 
lessly wandered  away. 

"Come  with  me,"  she  said  coaxingly. 

Still  he  shook  his  head.    He  swallowed. 

"You  have  a  lover  there,"  he  said. 

"Ah!  she  told  you  that,"  cried  Dolores 
angrily. 

He  vaguely  nodded. 

"Is  that  why  you  won't  come?  I  won't  go  to 
him.  He  knows  I  won't.  I'd  have  no  one  but 
you,"  she  took  his  cold  hand  again. 

"No,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  not  looking  at 
her.    "No,  I  can't;  I'm  afraid." 

"Coward!"  cried  Dolores,  loud  with  rage. 

Knitting  her  teeth,  she  squeezed  his  hand  as 
fiercely  as  she  could.  Then  she  flung  it  away 
and  ran  from  him. 

In  a  moment,  Paez,  who  shivered  even  in  the 
hot  sunshine,  followed.  As  he  went  through  the 
trees,  she  sprang  out  and  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck. 

"Paez,"  she  pleaded.  "Darling!  Come.  I 
love  you.  I  love  you  better  than  any  one  else. 
Come,"  she  put  her  head  in  his  neck  and  kissed 


A   LOVER'S   PROMISE  125 

his  cheek.  "Paez,"  she  repeated  softly,  pressing 
him  to  her,  "come  with  me  away  from  here.' 

His  wandering  eyes  at  last  focused  themselves 
on  hers.  His  long  hair  brushed  her  cheek.  He 
put  his  head  down,  or  let  her  pull  it  down,  till  his 
lips  touched  her  face. 

"When  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"To-night.    You  will  come?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paez,  putting  his  arms  around  her. 


XV 

THE   CURFEW 

A  S  early  that  night  as  was  possible  without 
/— \  being  noticed,  Dolores,  going  into  her 
-*•  -*■  own  room,  tied  up  her  bundle.  As  she 
had  taken  little  out  of  it,  it  didn't  take  long  to 
get  it  ready  and  placed  under  the  unglazed  win- 
dow. Outside  was  the  moonlight,  silvering  the 
ground;  darkness  beyond;  and  overhead  a  serene 
sky  with  a  motionless  moon.  She  could  hear  in 
the  porch  the  swishing  and  swashing  of  Pasco's 
rinsing  his  dye-tubs. 

With  bent  arm  and  raised  hand,  she  hesitated. 
Then  with  a  swing  of  her  skirts  she  flung  through 
the  big  living-room,  where  Panchita,  her  hands 
folded  over  her  rosary  on  her  fat  lap,  nodded 
in  the  half-light  of  an  ill-smelling  lamp.  Dolores 
having  pushed  the  handle  of  her  little  white 
pistol  into  her  bosom,  stepped  into  the  porch. 
Pasco,  who  was  rocking  a  big  tub  on  its  edge, 
stopped  at  once;  but  the  girl  swung  past  him. 
In  a  moment  she  heard  his  watery  task  recom- 
mence behind  her. 

There  was  no  one  abroad.  Quietly  she  arrived 
before  the  house  of  Oestocris.  As  there  are  no 
clocks  in  San  Rafael  and  as  besides  she  had  no 
exact  engagement  with  Paez,  she  waited. 

126 


THE   CURFEW  127 

Through  the  open  door,  under  the  shade  of 
the  porch,  she  could  see  into  the  house.  One 
end  of  the  room, — a  dim  emptiness,  with  a  blue 
blotch,  which  was  the  Pieta  on  the  farther  wall, 
— was  all  that  was  visible;  by  going  farther 
down  the  gentle  slope  she  could  see  more  of  that 
wall;  and  by  going  as  far  as  possible  and  as  near 
the  house  as  she  cared  to,  she  could  just  catch 
sight  of  one  half  of  old  Oestocris,  sitting  quite 
still  on  the  floor.  Though,  after  she  had  looked 
for  some  time,  the  old  creature  moved  her  arm 
and  rested  her  hand  differently  on  the  ground. 

Overhead  in  the  sky  were  the  yellow  moon 
and  ever  and  ever  so  many  stars, — brighter  as 
they  got  farther  from  the  moon  and  fewer  near 
the  horizon.  The  sky  seemed  to  stretch  out  she 
couldn't  imagine  how  far.  Down  in  the  Valley 
no  light  was  to  be  seen  in  any  direction.  The 
warm  air  was  perfectly  motionless  and  soundless. 

As  Dolores  stood  waiting,  she  strained  her 
eyes  not  only  to  gaze  into  the  house,  where  all 
she  found  was  a  dark  spot  on  the  brown  wall, 
but  also  to  make  out  the  windows;  but  stare  her 
hardest,  the  windows  remained  empty  and  black. 
At  last  her  eyes  were  so  tired  that  she  looked 
up  again  into  the  placid,  twinkling  sky.  Sud- 
denly a  banging  brought  them  back  at  once  to 
the  house.  But  it  was  at  some  other  house;  this 
one  was  as  dark  and  silent,  and  the  one  open 


128    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

room  as  dim-lighted  and  silent  as  ever.     Then 
the  noise  stopped. 

Dolores,  sighing  unconsciously,  shifted  her 
weight  to  the  other  leg.  She  was  weary  with 
standing.  So  she  began,  one  slow  step  at  a 
time,  to  walk  towards  the  church.  At  first  she 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  every  step;  then 
she  would  take  six  together  without  looking. 
Still  Paez  did  not  come. 

She  didn't  go  far;  but  turning  and  strolling 
back,  went  a  little  nearer  the  house,  even  into 
the  faint  patch  of  light  falling  out  through  the 
door.  She  kept  on  downwards  as  far  as  she 
could  go  and  still  see  into  the  bare  room;  there 
she  halted. 

Taking  her  little  pistol  out  of  her  bosom,  she 
examined  it  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  kissed  it 
and  put  it  back  into  her  bosom. 

After  that  she  took  her  pair  of  beads  and  be- 
gan to  pray  softly;  but  before  the  third  Ave,  with 
an  impatient  sigh,  she  hastily  stuffed  them  back 
into  her  breast. 

Then  she  was  aware  of  somebody  coming. 
From  the  direction  and  the  light  tread  it  could 
be  only  Pasco.  She  hastily  slipped  into  the  shade 
of  the  house.  There  she  waited, — clenching  her 
fists  nervously  at  her  sides  and  winking  in  the 
darkness, — till  she  saw  him  first  pass  one  way; — 
and  then  a  long,  long  time,  during  which  noth- 
ing happened,  only  her  heart  beat  and  her  knees 


THE   CURFEW  129 

got  tired, — till  she  saw  him  pass  back  the  other 
way. 

After  that,  as  she  was  creeping  softly  round 
the  house,  carefully  peering  through  the  porch 
posts  into  the  one  lighted  room,  which  she  could 
see  gradually  more  and  more  of,  all  at  once  the 
light  ceased,  and  that  room  was  as  black  as  the 
rest  of  the  house.  Holding  her  breath  to  listen, 
Dolores  stood  quite  still.  Something  within  the 
house  creaked.  She  caught  with  one  hand  to 
the  round  post  and  harkened.  There  was  no 
more  sound.  She  began  to  breathe  softly,  but 
still  she  stood  and  listened  and  waited. 

Then  on  the  heavy,  quiet  air  slie  began  to  hear, 
far,  far  off,  a  sort  of  murmur;  a  rumbling 
murmur,  steady  and  monotonous,  but  growing 
always  a  little  louder,  and  a  little  louder,  till  it 
could  be  easily  heard,  and  the  air  even  seemed 
to  tremble  out  beyond  one,  just  a  little  bit.  Then 
in  some  way  the  sound  became  less  and  less,  and 
by  degrees  faded  away  into  the  large  silence  of 
the  night;  so  that  nobody  could  have  said  when 
it  ceased.  Dolores  knew  that  it  was  the  ten 
o'clock  train,  way  off  down  in  the  Valley,  passing 
on  its  way  to  Creede. 

She  crept  out  farther  into  the  open,  where  she 
could  see  six  of  the  village  houses.  There  was 
not  a  glimmer  of  light  left  in  them.  She  knew 
that  the  passing  of  that  train  is  a  curfew  to  San 
Rafael. 


130    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

After  more  silent,  hopeless  waiting-,  she  started 
off  on  a  fair  pace  to  the  river.  Once  there,  push- 
ing in  among  the  trees,  she  flung  herself  down 
on  the  bit  of  grass  where  she  had  talked  with 
Paez.  With  chin  in  hand  she  sat  watching  the 
reflection  of  the  moon  break  to  pieces  and  join 
together  in  the  water.  All  at  once  she  jumped 
up  again  and  fairly  ran  back  the  way  she  had 
come.  Stopping  at  her  own  house  to  put  her 
head  into  her  own  window,  she  called,  very 
softly,  "Paez!" 

Getting  no  answer,  she  hurried  up  to  his 
house.  "Paez!"  she  called  in  a  whisper,  stand- 
ing just  outside  the  porch  and  holding  her  hand 
to  her  ear.    But  she  got  as  little  answer  here. 

And  although  she  walked  cautiously  five  times 
round  the  house,  sighing  wearily,  and  each  time 
stopping  to  whisper  "Paez"  as  loud  as  she  dared 
into  the  porch;  and  though  she  waited  in  the 
night  a  full  hour  of  silence  longer,  before  crawl- 
ing back  into  her  window,  not  a  sign  of  Paez 
did  she  see.    She  stayed,  therefore,  in  San  Rafael. 


XVI 

A  RECRUITING  OFFICE 

THE  mind  of  Cristobal  on  his  long  ride 
back  from  San  Rafael  and  for  days  and 
days  afterwards  was  possessed  with  one 
intense  feeling,  hatred  for  Father  Maria  de  Jesus. 
Growing,  as  it  did,  as  much  from  his  passion  for 
Dolores  as  from  the  sting  of  the  priest's  own 
scorn  for  him  personally,  it  overshadowed  for 
a  time  that  passion.  With  one  of  his  new-found 
friends  in  Las  Animas  County,  a  half-Mexican 
cowboy,  with  whom  he  spent  long  hours  drink- 
ing, and  for  whose  superior  knowledge  of  the 
big  world  he  soon  acquired  a  great  respect,  he 
talked  over  the  subject  of  the  Penitentes.  His 
naive  discretion,  mingled  with  his  aversion  to 
making  himself  prominent  since  the  murder  of 
Anunciato  (although  the  fear  of  punishment  for 
that  was  continually  weakening),  kept  him  from 
putting  the  case  in  a  very  personal  light.  But 
the  general  mind  of  Catholics,  and  especially 
Spaniards,  in  those  districts  was  so  strongly 
prejudiced  against  the  Penitentes,  as  degenerate 
half-breeds  who  were  at  best  a  shame  to  the 
country,  that  the  topic  was  one  on  which  he 
met  a  ready  response.  Within  himself  he  har- 
bored the  intense  desire  to  make  a  private  raid 

131 


132    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

on  the  hamlet  and  kill  at  least  the  priest:  but 
apart  from  a  disinclination  to  have  another  mur- 
der menacing  his  safety,  he  was  soon  won  over 
to  the  view  of  his  comrade  that  the  United  States 
Government  would  willingly  send  soldiers  to 
clean  out  the  disgraceful  Indians.  And  ulti- 
mately he  became  persuaded  that  it  would  send 
soldiers,  if  it  knew  that  a  crucifixion  was  to  be 
held  on  the  24th  of  that  very  October. 

It  was  on  the  16th  that  this  idea  was  really 
clear  in  his  mind;  and  nursing  it  as  a  solace  to 
his  individual  hatred,  he  saw  in  it  the  possibility 
of  his  revenge.  Early  the  next  morning  he  was 
up  and  away.  Catching  a  train  at  Trinidad,  he 
arrived  that  afternoon  in  Pueblo. 

This  was  his  first  visit  to  so  large  a  town. 
Rather  at  a  loss  he  strolled  down  the  ramshackle 
main  street,  helplessly  wondering  what  his  next 
move  should  be;  when  he  was  brought  up  short 
by  the  sight  of  a  sign  standing  on  the  sidewalk. 
This  sign  bore  pictures  of  a  group  of  lusty  sol- 
diers in  divers  uniforms,  and  underneath  a  good 
deal  of  reading  matter.  Looking  from  it  to  the 
building  in  front  of  which  it  stood,  Cristobal  saw 
in  an  open  second-story  window  the  back  of  a 
man  in  blue,  the  same  blue  as  in  the  uniforms 
pictured.  And  out  of  the  neighboring  window 
he  saw  hanging  a  flag.  This  coincidence  at  once 
restored  his  confidence,  and  mounting  the  flight 
of  stairs  leading  up  from  the  street,  he  pushed 


A   RECRUITING  OFFICE  133 

open  a  door  and  went  into  a  bare,  dingy  room. 

Two  soldiers,  one  with  several  red  chevrons 
on  his  sleeves,  who  were  sitting  tilted  back  in 
their  chairs  with  their  feet  on  a  table,  laughing 
and  talking  to  each  other,  got  up  at  his  entrance 
and  one  of  them  said:  "Well,  young  man,  do  you 
want  to  enlist?" 

"No,"  replied  Cristobal,  as  if  offended  at  the 
question. 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  Penitentes." 

"About  what?" 

The  two  soldiers  stared  blankly  at  each  other 
and  then  the  younger  one  laughed.  "Come  on 
old  man,"  the  Sergeant-Major  encouraged  him; 
"what  is  it  you  want  to  tell  us  about?" 

"About "  Cristobal  began  again,  exceed- 
ingly dignified:  and  then  in  his  embarrassment, 
taking  refuge  in  Spanish,  repeated  in  that  lan- 
guage, "I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  Penitentes." 

The  soldiers  laughed  again,  and  one  of  them 
said:  "You'll  never  make  us  understand  that 
way,"  while  the  other  remarked:  "Better  get  the 
doctor  to  talk  to  him." 

At  this  moment  an  inner  door,  which  had  been 
ajar,  was  pulled  open  and  a  stout,  soldierly-look- 
ing man  in  civilian's  clothes  entered. 

"What  is  it,  boys?"  he  asked  briskly. 

"This  here  gentleman  is  springing  Spanish  or 


134    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

some  lingo  on  us,  Major,"  replied  the  Sergeant- 
Major. 

Cristobal,  a  picture  of  tremendous  earnestness, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  new-comer,  who  at  once, 
speaking  to  him  in  Spanish,  asked:  "Well,  what 
is  it?" 

Cristobal,  his  tongue  loosened,  poured  forth  a 
torrent  of  hasty  words,  trying  to  tell  in  one 
breath  his  whole  story. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  the  surgeon  caught  him  up, 
"you'll  have  to  go  slower  than  that  if  you  want 
me  to  follow  you.  Come,  let's  have  it  again. 
The  Penitentes,  you  say.  They're  the  people 
down  in  the  southern  part  of  the  State,  who  used 
to  have  the  crucifixions?     I've  heard  of  them." 

"Yes,"  answered  Cristobal;  "but  they  are 
going  to  have  another  next  week;  San  Rafael's 
Day." 

"What's  that  you  say?  You're  sure!  Let  me 
see;    I  heard  something  about  this  in  Denver, 

but  I  imagine. Here,  one  of  you  men,"  he 

said  in  English,  "run  down  stairs  and  telephone 
to  the  station  and  get  Major  Connor,  and  when 
you've  got  him,  come  up  and  let  me  know.  It's 
a  half  hour  yet  to  train  time,"  and  he  consulted 
his  watch. 

The  two  soldiers  had  been  standing  looking 
blankly  at  the  two  speakers  in  a  strange  tongue; 
but  at  this  demand  the  younger  of  them  came  to 


A   RECRUITING  OFFICE  135 

himself  and  briskly  enough  hurried  from  the 
room  and  rattled  down  stairs. 

"Now,  you  come  in  here  and  tell  me  all  about 
this/'  said  the  surgeon,  turning  again  to  Cristo- 
bal; and  he  led  the  way  into  the  back  room. 

In  about  fifteen  minutes  the  soldier  who  had 
gone  down  stairs,  coming  up  again  hurriedly, 
tapped  on  the  inner  door.  "Major,"  he  reported, 
when  it  was  opened,  "Major  Connor  is  at  the 
telephone,  and  he's  in  a — an  awful  rush;  says  he 
hasn't  no  time  to  spare." 

"You  wait  here,"  the  surgeon  directed  Cris- 
tobal over  his  shoulder,  as  he  hastened  out. 

But  Cristobal,  having  got  the  ear  of  an  inter- 
ested  person,  who  seemed  indeed  so  deeply  inter- 
ested that  he  was  sure  to  carry  the  thing  through, 
saw  no  further  use  of  his  remaining  there;  be- 
sides, he  never  altogether  forgot  that  he  was 
himself  amenable  to  the  law,  if  his  murder  was 
found  out.  Accordingly  he  quietly  slunk  from 
the  recruiting  office  and  down  stairs  and  away; 
and  the  two  soldiers  not  having  heard  their  supe- 
rior's order  to  him  to  wait,  let  him  go. 

Meanwhile  the  officer  having  taken  up  the 
receiver  of  the  telephone,  said  into  the  instru- 
ment: "Hello,  Major.  You?  Sorry  to  trouble 
you." 

"Don't  waste  time  apologizing,"  came  the  re- 
sponse; "I'm  in  a  deuce  of  a  hurry;  what  is  it?" 

"You  remember  the  talk  about  the  Penitentes 


136    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

— Penitentes,  yes — down  in  San  Rafael  in  the 
San  Luis  Valley — Oh,  yes,  you  do,  too.  The 
Colonel's  pal,  the  Archbishop, — the  Archbishop, 
— told  the  Colonel  about  a  month  ago,  that  there 
was  talk  of  their  having  a  crucifixion  down  there; 
and  there  was  some  discussion  about  sending 
down  to  stop  it." 

"Yes,  go  on,"  came  the  answering  voice;  "I 
believe  I  remember.    Didn't  interest  me  much." 

"You  must  remember,"  replied  the  surgeon 
with  as  much  vehemence  as  is  possible  over  a 
telephone;  "and  it  must  interest  you  now.  I 
want  you  to  report  about  it  as  soon  as  you  get 
to  town.  Listen,  and  be  sure  you  get  this 
straight.  Tell  the  Colonel  I  have  good  inside 
information  that  those  people  are  planning  to 
bring  off  this  crucifixion  next  week,  the  24th, 
and  he  ought  to  send  down  and  see  about  it." 

"He  won't  have  time,"  came  the  response; 
"besides,  you  know  the  order  to  go " 

"Tell  him  to  telegraph  at  once  to  Washing- 
ton  " 

"All  right,  I  will.  Say,  old  man,  is  there  much 
more  of  this?" 

"No.     Only  promise  not  to  forget  it." 

"All  right.  I'll  tell  him  with  your  compli- 
ments.    Is  that  all?     Good-byes "     And  the 

droning  of  the  telephone  was  suddenly  the  only 
sound  in  the  surgeon's  ears. 


A   RECRUITING  OFFICE  137 

"I'll  write,  too/'  he  said,  as  he  hung  up  the 
receiver. 

Going  back  through  the  store,  he  mounted  to 
the  recruiting  office. 

"Hello,  you  men,  where's  that  fellow?"  he 
asked  as  he  went  in. 

"Went  away,  Major,  just  after  you  left,"  re- 
plied the  Sergeant-Major. 

"The  devil  he  did!  Well,  one  of  you  go  out 
and  look  for  him.  Or,  wait;  it's  time  to  close 
up  here.     Both  of  you  go." 

But  the  surgeon  never  saw  Cristobal  again. 
He  had  gone  back  to  Las  Animas  County  to 
await  results. 


XVII 

AN   ARBITER  OF   FATE 

FATHER  Maria  de  Jesus,  driven  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Heaven  did  not  intend  to 
signify  directly  who  was  to  have  the  honor 
of  protagonist  in  the  festival,  was  forced,  in  order 
not  to  jeopard  abandoning  it  for  that  year,  to 
decide  on  a  resort  to  chance.  But  he  explained 
to  Oestocris  and  to  Cristoke  and  to  as  many  of 
the  younger  Penitentes  as  consulted  him,  the 
hand  of  Heaven  would  be  as  actually,  though 
less  visibly,  in  this  choosing  as  in  the  most  in- 
dubitable miracle  God  might  have  sent. 

The  evening  of  choosing  being  set  for  the  next 
after  that  on  which  Dolores  had  thought  of  de- 
serting San  Rafael,  early  that  morning  Pasco  was 
sent  down  to  the  store  at  Antonito  to  buy  the 
implements  of  augury. 

When  about  noon  he  came  slowly  riding  up 
the  hill  upon  the  Father's  donkey,  the  whole  of 
the  Penitentes  were  waiting  before  the  church 
to  receive  him.  The  priest  saying  his  great, 
brown  beads,  stood  in  the  middle.  On  one  hand, 
behind  his  old  mother,  Paez  was  crowded  near 
Dolores.  As  he  noticed  her  pushing  towards 
him  among  the  praying  people,  he  slipped  more 
away  from  her;   but  Fanita  was  not  far  off  on 

138 


AN   ARBITER   OF   FATE  139 

the  other  side.  He  felt  in  the  opening  of  his  dirty 
flannel  shirt,  and  pulling  out  a  blue  glass  rosary, 
began  diligently  on  his  first  Hail  Mary,  piously 
looking  down.  Dolores  getting  next  him, 
nudged  him  with  her  elbow.  He  twisted  some- 
what away  from  her;  but  as  he  inadvertently 
gave  her  his  ear,  the  girl,  putting  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  speaking  into  his  black  love-locks, 
said  in  a  tone  that  reached  only  to  him :  "Where 
were  you?" 

Paez  moved  his  shoulder  uncomfortably;  but 
she  kept  her  hand  on  it  and  breathed  against  his 
hair.  Turning  his  head  slightly,  but  not  so  as 
to  let  his  eyes  meet  hers,  he  answered,  "I 
couldn't  come.    My  mother " 

The  rest  was  lost  under  his  breath,  and  in  the 
half-snort  of  contempt  and  anger  and  love  that 
the  girl  gav». 

"Coward!"  she  hissed  scornfully. 

Tightening  her  lips,  she  stepped  into  an  open 
space  behind  the  priest.  As  she  waited  there, 
she  couldn't  resist  leaning  forward  to  look  into 
his  hanging  brown  hood. 

At  the  same  time,  the  other  girl,  Fanita,  with 
one  fierce  squeeze,  reached  Paez  from  in  front 
and  demanded:   "What  was  she  saying?" 

The  young  man,  raising  his  black  eyes  from 
the  ground,  gave  her  a  swift  glance,  combining 
fright  and  amusement.  He  said  nothing;  and  at 
the  same  instant  Oestocris,  pushing  in  front  of 


140    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

him  to  be  next  to  the  priest  when  Pasco  arrived, 
crowded  the  girl  away.  Fanita  caught  the  eye 
of  Dolores;  and  the  two  girls,  with  lips  apart, 
glared  at  each  other  threateningly.  Neither 
would  look  away  first;  but  Father  Chucho  came 
between  them,  as  he  stepped  forward  to  Pasco, 
who  was  just  dismounting. 

The  muttering  of  prayers  ceased,  as  the  young 
man  solemnly  held  out  his  package.  It  was  a 
shining  white  pasteboard  box  of  playing  cards; 
and  on  it  rested  several  small  pieces  of  silver. 
The  priest  put  the  change  somewhere  inside  his 
robe;  and  then  as  the  Penitentes,  with  wide  eyes 
over  one  another's  shoulders,  closed  in  round 
him,  he  slit  the  edge  of  the  box  with  his  thumb- 
nail, and  slid  out  the  smooth  white-edged  cards. 
One  dropped.  Cristoke  had  stooped  in  an  in- 
stant to  pick  it  up,  thereby  losing  his  chance  of 
holding  the  box,  which  the  priest  carefully  placed 
in  the  eager  hands  of  Oestocris.  She  minutely 
examined  the  picture  on  the  front. 

Father  Chucho,  taking  in  his  left  hand  the 
card  which  the  trembling  old  man  reverently 
handed  him,  said:  "This  will  be  our  first  sign. 
Look,  all  of  you!  This  card,  the  one  that  fell 
to  the  ground,  shall  be  the  one  that  bears  the 
signal." 

As  he  held  it  out,  they  all  pressed  closer  to  see 
it.  He  showed  it  nearer,  here  and  there.  It  was 
the  King  of  Spades. 


AN   ARBITER  OF   FATE  141 

"It  is  a  man,  you  see,"  he  went  on;  "as  who 
should  say,  'Ecce  Homo!'  and  he  wears  a  crown, 
— the  glorious  crown  of  thorns  of  Our  Lord." 

No  one's  eyes  were  more  glued  to  the  card 
than  Fanita's. 

"I  will  put  it  into  the  middle  of  them  all," 
continued  Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  "and  I  will 
now  lay  them  before  the  Host  on  the  altar; 
where  it  is  always  right  to  leave  whatever  is  to 
be  blessed  to  the  special  service  of  the  church. 
Keep  a  special  fast  to-day,  and  all  of  you  pray 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  your  patron  saints  to 
oversee  and  bless  our  sacred  undertaking." 

He  went  alone  into  the  church.  They  could 
see  that  he  laid  the  cards  upon  the  altar  and 
kneeled  down  before  it. 

Then  the  gathering  broke  up.  Dolores  with 
one  cutting  look  at  Paez,  hurried  to  the  side  of 
Pasco;  Panchita  joined  them.  The  rest  dis- 
persed to  their  several  houses.  A  day  of  fast 
meant  only  prayer  and  contemplation, — no  work 
in  the  parching  fields. 

They  all  left  but  Fanita.  She  hung  irresolutely 
round  the  church;  first  peeping  in  and  then 
turning  her  back  to  look  under  her  shading  hand 
down  the  hill.  The  sun  was  blazing  down  piti- 
lessly; and  though,  like  all  the  Penitentes,  the 
girl  was  used  to  feel  his  scorching  rays  on  her 
black  hair,  this  morning  she  pulled  up  the  back 
of  her  blue  skirt  and  put  it  over  her  head.    In 


142    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

that  way,  it  hid  all  of  her  red  waist,  except  just 
in  front.  Her  dark  face  was  heavy  with  decision; 
her  eyes  sick-looking  but  firm. 

When  she  saw  the  priest  slowly  rise  from  the 
altar,  she  slipped  stealthily  round  the  church, 
and  waited  cautiously  in  the  handsbreadth  of 
shade  there.  She  heard  his  bare  feet  on  the 
ground.  Another  silent  minute  and  she  had 
stolen  back  round  the  corner  and  into  the  church. 
The  air  inside  was  close:  she  let  her  skirt  drop 
again.  Curtesying  low  to  the  altar,  she  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  with  a  finger-end  of  holy  water. 

With  only  one  glance  behind,  she  stepped 
boldly  up  into  the  chancel  and  took  the  box  of 
cards  off  of  Dolores's  white  mantilla  on  the  altar. 
Then  she  sat  down  on  the  chancel-edge,  facing 
the  open  door.  Looking  every  other  moment 
toward  the  door,  she  opened  the  box  and  began 
with  awkward  fingers  to  sort  the  cards,  which 
stuck  together.  She  laid  them  down  carefully 
round  her,  each  one  separate.  Though  she  did 
it  as  expeditiously  as  possible,  she  paused  to  look 
at  the  Queens.  The  first  one,  her  of  Diamonds, 
she  turned  both  ways  up  to  see  the  two  faces.  As 
soon  as  she  reached  the  King  of  Spades,  which 
she  compared  with  the  Queen  and  the  Knave, 
so  as  to  be  sure,  she  shoved  the  cards  all  together 
again,  with  the  fatal  one  on  top.  As  she  was 
squaring  the  edges  and  slipping  them  into  the 
box,  she  paused  to  take  them  out  again.    Twice 


AN  ARBITER  OF   FATE  143 

she  slowly  dealt  out  six  cards  with  her  left  hand; 
each  time  she  turned  up  the  first  one  to  be  sure 
it  was  the  King.  She  deliberated  a  moment, 
her  forehead  wrinkled.  With  a  final  nod  she  put 
them  in  and  rather  difficultly  closed  the  box. 

Then,  with  more  hesitation  and  timidity  than 
she  had  taken  it  down,  she  put  it  back  into  its 
place.  Making  the  sign  of  the  cross  three  times, 
she  pushed  back  Dolores's  white  mantilla,  bowed 
devoutly,  and  kissed  the  altar  between  her  hands 
as  the  priest  does  at  mass. 

She  came  out  of  the  church  with  her  face 
serious  but  peaceful. 


XVIII 

CASTING  THE   LOT 

THAT  evening  when  it  was  slowly  getting 
dark  outside  and  when  indoors  it  was 
already  dark  except  for  the  smoky  lan- 
tern on  Oestocris's  old  chest,  the  Penitentes 
began  by  ones  and  twos  to  arrive  at  her  house. 
Fanita,  among  the  earliest,  came  hurrying  in, 
and  instead  of  sitting  demurely  down  on  the 
floor,  like  those  already  there,  and  droning  un- 
intelligible prayers,  she  shot  across  to  the  old 
woman,  who  was  standing  near  the  lamp  with 
her  back  to  the  door,  and  caught  her  round  the 
body. 

"Don't  do  that,"  exclaimed  Oestocris  severely, 
pulling  free.  "Who  is  it?  Oh,  Fanita!  Why  are 
you  so  foolish  and  childish?" 

"Sh,"  cautioned  the  girl,  finger  on  lip.  "Don't 
scold.  I  have  something  important,"  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder.    "I  have  had  a  message." 

"A  message?"  repeated  Oestocris  in  a  glad 
tone  of  comprehension. 

"From  Saint  Francis,"  she  spoke  low. 

The  gray  old  creature  nodded,  impatient  for 
more. 

"You  know  he  received  the  marks  himself," 
said  Fanita,  tapping  her  left  palm  with  her  right 

144 


CASTING  THE  LOT  145 

forefinger.  "He  is  my  Saint.  And  he  is  the 
special  patron — ,"  she  paused. 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  old  woman  with  fixed 
eyes. 

"He  wishes  Paez  to  have  it." 

Oestocris's  hard  features  smiled  as  she  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"He  told  me,"  the  girl  went  on,  "Paez  must 
sit  at  the  beginning  of  the  circle  to-night.  Look ! 
put  him  there,"  she  pointed  boldly;  "under  the 
Pieta;  and  when  the  Father  considers  where  to 
begin " 

The  old  Indian's  eyes  were  alight  with  pleas- 
urable understanding. 

"The  Saints  have  heard  us,"  she  said  fervently, 
but  in  a  low  tone;  "we  shall  be  honored  and 
blessed, — I  as  his  mother,  you  as  his  sweetheart." 

Her  withered  old  hand  sought  the  girl's  soft 
young  one  and  squeezed  it  hard. 

During  this  conversation  the  Penitentes  had 
been  quietly  arriving.  Each  one,  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  at  the  threshold,  would  go 
direct  to  some  vacant  space  and  without  a  word 
would  sit  on  the  floor  and  begin  to  pray.  The 
women  sat  nearest  the  walls  and  the  men  formed 
a  ring  in  front. 

Oestocris,  going  to  Paez,  who  was  sitting  near 
the  door  as  absorbed  as  the  rest,  stooped,  and  in 
a  whisper,  bade  him  "Get  up!" 

He  rose  mechanically. 


146    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Taking  him  by  one  arm,  she  led  him  across 
the  room.  Those  in  the  way  shuffled  aside  to  let 
them  by,  and  the  two  men  sitting  under  the  blue 
plaster  Pieta,  separated  to  make  room  for  them 
to  stand.  Still  holding  her  son  by  the  arm,  the 
old  woman  mumbled  a  prayer;  then  leaning 
towards  him,  said  in  a  low  tone:  "Sit  down  and 
stay  in  this  place." 

Paez  dropped  obediently  to  his  knees  and  sat 
on  the  earthen  floor.  His  mother,  recrossing 
the  circle,  sat  down  nearly  opposite  him. 

A  moment  more  and  Father  Maria  de  Jesus 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  Place  was  made  for 
him  to  go  into*  the  middle  of  all  his  flock  thus 
huddled  together  in  this  dim,  hot,  smoky  room. 
The  priest  with  his  arms  extended  kneeled  down 
facing  the  Pieta.  His  great  brown  rosary  was  in 
one  hand,  the  case  of  cards  in  the  other.  After  a 
silent  prayer,  standing  up,  he  said  to  Oestocris: 
"Have  you  any  tapers?" 

Paez  was  half  risen,  when  the  old  woman  in  a 
loud,  determined  voice,  answered  "No." 

Paez,  catching  her  eye,  sank  down  again. 

"I  offered  my  last  one  this  morning,"  she  ex- 
plained in  a  more  suave  tone,  "to  Our  Lady  of 
Santa  Fe." 

Father  Chucho  nodded  to  a  small  boy  who  was 
looking  at  him  inquiringly  from  just  inside  the 
doorway.  The  small  boy  vanished  into  the  silver 
night.  While  he  was  gone,  quiet  reigned.  Every- 


CASTING  THE  LOT  H7 

one  had  ceased  praying;  there  was  only  the 
sound  of  so  many  people  breathing.  The  priest 
in  his  rough  brown  robe,  with  his  bare  feet,  the 
hand  holding  the  rosary  clasped  over  the  one 
holding  the  playing-cards,  stood  in  the  center. 
His  face  was  stern  and  deliberative. 

When  the  boy  reappeared,  Father  Chucho 
stretched  over  the  intervening  sitters  to  grasp 
the  two  candles.  Then  laying  the  cards  on  the 
floor  and  putting  the  beads  through  his  rope- 
girdle,  he  stood  on  tiptoe  and  reached  at  arm's 
length  to  fasten  one  of  the  tapers  upright  on  the 
shelf  above  Paez's  head  and  to  light  it  with  some 
matches  he  drew  from  his  bosom.  The  other  he 
arranged  the  same  way  before  the  plaster  cruci- 
fixion. During  this,  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
shining  packet  lying  in  the  midst;  except  those 
of  Dolores,  sitting  next  to  Panchita  and  behind 
Pasco.  From  the  dark  background  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  Paez. 

The  lights  being  arranged,  the  priest  kneeled 
again  and  now  prayed  audibly  to  Our  Lady  of 
the  Seven  Sorrows,  for  her  aid  in  their  enterprise. 
After  a  briefer  prayer  than  he  often  made,  he 
took  up  the  box  and  slipped  out  the  cards.  Then 
he  paused. 

"Begin  under  the  Blessed  Virgin,  Father," 
spoke  out  Oestocris  clearly  in  the  midst  of  the 
silence.  For  a  moment  all  the  eyes  shifted  to  her. 
Then  they  moved  back  to  the  cards.    There  was 


148    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

a  Virgin  in  each  statue;  but  in  turning-  towards 
Oestocris,  the  Father's  eye  fell  on  the  Pieta. 

"You  are  right/'  said  he.  "I  had  proposed 
beginning  there.  I  was  only  thinking  how  to 
explain.  I  will  distribute  one  card  each,"  he 
went  on  deliberately,  "till  all  are  gone.  They 
are  not  to  be  touched  or  turned  over  till  then; 
and  at  the  end  whoever  has  the  King  with  the 
two  Spades " 

A  general  sigh  of  relief  rose  as  he  carefully 
took  the  first  card  from  the  top  of  the  deck  and 
laid  it,  with  its  rose-pink  back  upwards,  in  front 
of  Paez.  There  were  fifteen  men  in  the  circle. 
They  sat  quite  still;  but  the  women  and  children 
behind  them  were  soon,  on  their  feet,  straining 
their  necks  to  see  each  card  carefully  placed ;  and 
each  one  holding  her  breath  when  it  came  the 
turn  of  her  son  or  husband  or  father. 

Though  all  the  men  received  their  cards  silent- 
ly, most  of  them  made  some  nervous  movement 
Old  Cristoke  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  tremu- 
lously for  each  of  his  three.  Paez  writhed  visibly. 
Only  Pasco  kept  utterly  still. 

The  three  cards  that  each  one  got  the  priest 
ranged  somewhat  in  the  form  of  a  cross  with 
very  short  arms.  There  were  left  eight  cards,— 
enough  to  go  half  round  again.  The  Father,  as 
he  dealt  the  cards,  turned  so  as  to  face  one  can- 
didate after  another.  These  last  eight  he  placed 
with  increased  deliberation. 


CASTING  THE   LOT  149 

One  woman  uttered  a  little  moan  of  excite- 
ment which  no  one  noticed. 

When  all  the  cards  were  delivered  there  was 
another  sigh  of  relief;  and  then  another  tense 
silence  of  waiting.  The  priest  finally  revolved 
himself  round  on  his  knees  till  he  faced  the  Pieta. 
The  candle-grease  had  been  dripping  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  flannel  shirt  of  Paez. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  made  another  prayer, 
to  Our  same  Lady  of  Sorrows,  asking  her,  if  any 
human  error  had  been  made  in  the  distribution 
of  the  cards,  to  deign  mercifully  to  intervene  and 
miraculously  to  change  them  as  best  suited  her 
and  San  Rafael  and  the  Father  Himself,  in 
Whose  honor  and  to  Whose  glory  the  Penitentes 
were  now,  as  in  all  things,  proceeding. 

No  sooner  had  he  said  "Amen,"  than  he 
stooped  suddenly  and  turned  over  the  top  one 
of  the  four  cards  of  Paez.  It  was  the  King  of 
Spades. 

A  low  wondering  murmur  ran  round  the  circle 
of  women.  Oestocris  pushing  into  the  circle, 
ran  over,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  examined  the 
card.  Then  in  her  strident  voice,  she  began 
thanking  the  Blessed  Virgin  so  loud  that  little 
else  was  to  be  heard.  The  priest  joined  with  her. 
Little  else  could  have  been  heard,  anyway,  save 
the  labored  breathing  of  the  trembling,  haggard 
old  Cristoke,  whose  every  breath  was  a  little 
groan. 


150    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

With  shaking  fingers  he  began  dreamily  turn- 
ing over  his  own  cards;  then  he  leaned  and  did 
the  same  with  those  of  the  youth  next  him.  All 
at  once  his  weak  old  eyes  grew  fixed  on  one  of 
them.  It  was  the  Jack  of  Spades.  Snatching  it 
up,  he  stumbled  to  his  knees. 

"Father,"  he  called  brokenly  and  gaspingly. 
"Here — here — is  another!" 

All  sounds  ceased,  even  Oestocris's  praying. 
The  youth  whose  card  it  was  stared  with  horror. 
Paez  had  his  hand  over  his  mouth,  while  Father 
Chucho  took  the  card  and  scrutinized  it  care- 
fully. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  one  had  blue  hair; 
they  are  all  a  good  deal  alike." 

Oestocris  at  once  resumed  her  loud  prayer. 
Cristoke  relaxed  into  a  heartbroken  little  heap. 
The  women,  dropping  to  their  knees,  joined  in 
the  praying  and  the  men  at  first  sitting  silent, 
soon  got  on  their  knees  and  did  the  same. 

Only  Paez,  with  pale  face  and  drooping  chin, 
sat  facing  all  the  others  and  staring  through 
them  into  vacancy. 

Fanita,  who  was  praying  volubly,  was  nearly 
as  red  as  her  vermilion  waist.  But  Dolores  was 
as  ashy  as  Paez.  Squeezing  past  Panchita,  she 
flung  herself  out  into  the  open  night,  under  the 
placid  moon.  She  could  look  into  the  same  room 
as  the  night  before,* — then  so  still  and  empty; 
now  crowded  with  hot  kneeling  figures  and  buzz- 


CASTING  THE  LOT  151 

ing  with  the  monotony  of  praying  voices;  and 
in  the  midst,  sitting  dejected,  silent,  she  could 
see  that  set,  weak,  gray  face,  the  straight  hang- 
ing, black  locks,  and  those  hopeless,  unseeing 
eyes. 


TO  J 

i 

■   .    .. 

7     - 

. 

, 

•    THE  GRGSS-BEA^EIi 

EARLY  the  next  morning  the  Penitentes 
assembled  in  the  church.  The  cards  had 
been  ranged  round  its  brown  walls, — 
three  or  four  under  each  Station.  The  King  of 
Spades  himself  had  been  nailed  to  the  foot  of  the 
cross  that  bore  the  great  wax  Christ. 

Paez  had  one  of  the  front  benches  to  himself. 
Instead  of  his  flannel  shirt  and  white  trousers, 
he  wore  one  of  Father  Chucho's  rough  brown 
gowns,  which  was  tied  round  his  waist  with  a 
rope  whence  dangled  a  huge  rosary.  Already  he 
had  had  his  tonsure  shaved;  and  the  round  spot 
was  staring  white  in  the  midst  of  his  long  coal- 
black  shiny  hair.  The  face  he  turned  to  the  altar 
this  morning  was  rather  heavy  than  despairing. 

The  sermon  which  Father  Chucho  preached 
after  mass  was  largely  a  synopsis  of  former  festi- 
vals; a  sort  oi  order  of  the  day,  which  most  of 
them  knew  from  experience  or  tradition.  Dur- 
ing the  forty  days  before  San  Rafael's  Day  he 
whom  Heaven  had  chosen  was  to  begin  his  pious 
undertaking  by  emulating  the  Savior's  fast  in  the 
wilderness. 

"None  of  you,"  said  the  priest,  "must  carry 
him  any  food;   though,  since  we  all  know  that 

152 


THE -CROSS-BEARER  153 

however'-holy  we  poor  mortals  may  become,  we 
are  stilr,  So  lbng^s"  we '-remain  on  this  wicked 
earth,  only  human;  therefore,  I  will  feed  him 
every  day  with  the  Eucharist.  And  this  shall 
represent  hot  only  the  bread  brought  by  the 
angels  to  Elijah,  but  also  the' heavenly  and  in- 
visible manna  of  the  spirit  with  which  Our  Lord 
was  nourished  by  the  Father.  -  And  not  only  are 
none  of  you  to  minister  to  him  during  his 
sojourn,  but  it  will  be  better  if  none  of  you 
speak  to  him.  I  do  not  forbid  that,  for  you  know 
that  angels  from  heaven  consorted  in  the  wilder- 
ness with  Christ.  But  take  care  that  your  weak 
words  are  not  rather  those  of  the  tempter.  As 
we  are  all  more  liable  to  sin  than  to  shine,  look 
to  it  that  you  shall  not  be  in  danger  of  being 
called  Satan." 

He  made  a  sign  in  the  air  to  avert  the  evil 
omen.  As  he  stepped  back  to  the  altar,  the 
priest  lifted  his  feet  carefully;  and  all,  by  strain- 
ing their  necks,  could  see  that  he  was  stepping 
over  the  black  wooden  beam  of  the  huge  cross, 
which  lay  there  ready.  Father  Maria  de  JcSus 
beckoned  to  Paez,  Who  rose  listlessly.  The  priest 
gave  him  a  helping  hand  up  into  the  chancel. 
The  young  man  in  the  loose  gown  stood  as 
motionless  and  heavy-looking,"  near  the  Epistle 
side  of  the  altar,  as  if  he  had  been  drugged.  His 
lack-luster  eyes  saw  none  of  those  fastened  upon 
him;    not  even  Fanita's  nor  Dolores's. 


154  THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

The  small  acolyte  in  red,  standing  at  the 
Gospel  side,  held  a  large  brass  bowl  into  which 
the  priest,  who  wore  his  green  chasuble  and  stole, 
dipped  a  silver  water-brush  and  slowly  aspersed 
the  holy-water  over  the  cross  at  his  feet,' — going 
carefully  from  one  end  to  the  other.  When  he 
sprinkled  what  water  remained  out  upon  the 
standing  congregation,  they  all,  as  a  drop 
touched  them,  bowing  down  here  and  there, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Then  he  gave  the  censer  to  the  red  acolyte  to 
fill  and  to  fire.  Standing  on  the  altar  step,  he 
turned  to  the  crucifix  and  censed  it;  then  facing 
about  to  swing  the  smoking  pot  on  its  brazen 
chains,  he  censed  the  Penitentes;  after  that  he 
turned  to  Paez.  Then  he  gave  back  the  censer 
to  the  boy,  who  kept  it  swinging  steadily,  while 
he  himself,  taking  the  tractable  Paez,  who  moved 
as  in  a  dream,  made  him  lie  face  down  upon  the 
cross,  his  arms  stretched  out  on  its  arms.  He  in 
his  stiff  green  silk  kneeled  behind  reciting  the 
Lord's  Prayer  in  Latin,  while  the  scarlet  boy 
with  the  censer,  from  the  altar  step  behind  swung 
out  great  sweet  puffs  of  smoke,  now  on  one  side 
of  the  priest,  now  on  the  other. 

The  Penitentes  dropped  to  their  knees  during 
the  prayer;  but  rose  again  when  Father  Maria 
de  Jesus,  after  pulling  Paez  up  off  the  cross,  let 
him  stand  demurely  in  his  place  again. 

Then  the  Father  stooped  and  tried  to  lift  the 


THE  CROSS-BEARER  155 

cross.  Though  he  could  raise  the  end  from  the 
floor  he  could  not  stand  it  up.  So  with  a  glance 
he  summoned  two  of  all  the  ready  men  in  the 
church  below.  Several  who,  thinking  they  had 
caught  his  eye,  started  up,  he  waved  back  with 
his  hand.  Pasco  and  another  who  was  young 
and  powerful,  coming  up,  proud  but  timid, 
dropped  to  one  knee  in  front  of  the  altar  before 
they  put  hand  to  the  task.  With  their  aid  the 
priest  got  the  heavy  cross  on  end,  leaning  in 
one  corner. 

As  soon  as  it  was  in  place  he  bent  forward, 
holding  the  upright  beam  between  his  two  hands 
and  reverently  kissed  the  rough  wood.  Then 
he  called  Paez,  who  mechanically  went  through 
the  same  motions.  After  him  the  acolyte,  Pasco, 
and  the  other  man  in  turn  kissed  it.  As  each  one 
finished,  he  very  slowly  and  gravely  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

Then  the  priest  turned,  and  as  he  gave  a  sig- 
nal with  his  head,  at  once  there  was  a  movement 
among  the  men.  Old  tottering  Cristoke,  who 
sat  on  the  end  of  a  front  bench  this  time,  came 
first;  and  after  him  all  the  men  and  boys  one 
by  one,  down  to  a  tot  led  by  his  father.  Eagerly 
but  slowly  they  came  in  turn;  and  each  one 
solemnly  saluting  the  altar,  then  walking  with 
dignity  the  few  steps  to  the  cross  and  kissing 
it  just  as  the  priest  had,  finally  bowed  before  the 


156    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Father  who  gave  him  a  blessing  before  he  de- 
scended. 

After  the  men  had  all  gone  out  of  the  church 
one  by  one,  except  the  Father,  the  acolyte,  and 
Paez,  the  signal  was  given  to  the  women.  Head- 
ed by  Oestocris,  they  came  as  slowly  and  as 
dignifiedly  as  the  men;  but  they  breathed  more 
nervously  and  held  their  lips  longer  to  the  cross. 

At  last  when  they  too  were  finished,  and 
Father  .Maria  de  Jesus  could  see  through  the 
open  door  the  silent  groups  out  in  the  sunshine, 
he  made  a  signal  to  the  boy  to  begin  ringing  the 
bell.  The  boy  seized  the  rope;  and  as  peal  after 
muffled  peal  beat  forth  beyond  the  roof  above 
them,  Paez  without  a  word,  his  face  set,  laid 
hold  of  the  huge  cross,  toppled  it  slowly  over, 
and  hand  over  hand  let  it  gradually  down  toward 
him,  till  the  beam  turning  rested  on  his  shoulder, 
the  cross-bar  down  in  front,  exactly  as  you  may 
see  in  the  Station  of  the  Cross. 

Dragging  the  great  weight  behind  him,  he 
got  slowly  down  out  of  the  chancel  and  step  by 
step  trailed  down  the  aisle  and  out  the  open 
door, — behind  him  the  priest  in  his  green  chasu- 
ble holding  up  his  fingers  in  blessing.  As  the 
door,  though  high  enough,  was  not  broad 
enough,  the  cross  had  to  be  carefully  manipu- 
lated through.  This  Paez  managed  with  un- 
heeding pains. 

So  there  was  left  in  the  dim  heavy-smelling 


THE  CROSS-BEARER  157 

church  only  the  scarlet-robed,  dark-faced  little 
acolyte,  who  pulled  and  relaxed  on  his  taut  bell- 
rope,  trying  to  see  but  not  seeing  what  was  be- 
ing done  outside.  When,  however,  he  did  see 
the  crowd  round  the  door  separate  and  the 
creature,  weighed  down  by  a  heavy  cross  bound 
on  his  back,  stumble  through  the  middle  of  them, 
he  left  off  ringing  and  hurried  out  to  watch  with 
the  rest,  the  weary,  crawling,  stumbling  brown 
figure,  bent  under  his  cruel  load,  going  alone  to 
the  wilderness. 


PART  SECOND 
XX 

THE   COMING  OF  STANGE 

MOUNT  BLANCA,  immense  and  blue, 
rising  from  a  lake  of  mirage,  smiled 
upon  the  far-reaching  San  Luis  Valley. 
The  sun  also  smiled  on  the  Valley  this  afternoon, 
and  very  warmly.  The  heat  rose  vibrating.  All 
the  trees  on  the  horizon  floated  in  mirage.  The 
few  shadows  were  like  pieces  of  black  paper  cut 
out  smoothly  and  laid  on  the  glaring  yellow 
sand.  The  flat  lands  were  very  quiet.  In  Anto- 
nito,  except  for  a  few  loungers  round  the  rail- 
way station,  not  a  man  was  to  be  seen.  Not  a 
mul^wagon  crept  over  the  sand  roads.  At 
Alamosa  the  down  train  from  Denver  and 
Pueblo  turned  off  the  long  tangent, — the  fifty- 
two-mile  tangent,  tracking  through  the  intermin- 
able waste, — and  came  on  to  the  sixteen-mile 
tangent.  Soon  it  could  be  seen  from  Antonito. 
As  the  smoke  crept  nearer,  and  then  as  the  nar- 
row-gauge rumbled  up  to  the  ramshackle  station 
and  stopped  with  much  purring,  the  loungers 
with  their  hands  in  their  snaps  pockets,  lazily 
arose.    Only  one  passenger  got  off. 

He  was  dressed  not  in  flannel  shirt  and  buck- 

150 


IOO    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

skin  shaps,  nor  yet  like  a  swell;  but  in  a  long 
brown  linen  duster.,  tie  carried  a  bag  covered 
with  Brussels  carpet.  A  great  pile  of  elongated 
bundles  of  white  canvas,  and  several  bunches  of 
tin  pots  and  kettles  strung  on  ropes  having  been 
rattled  out  summarily  from  the  baggage  car,  the 
train  departed.  The  loungers  stared  lat  \£& 
stranger.  J  \t\ 

"Where  is  Peter  Wezel's  hotel?"  he  afekefi  in 
a  brisk,  pleasant  voice. 

One  dirty  youth  in  a  wide  felt  hat ,  came  to  the 
end  of  the  platform  to  point  it  out  to  him. 
"There  it  jfe&jji*  drawled.  "Do  you  want  that 
baggage  took  anywheres?" 

"Why,  no,"  answered  the  other,  walking  away, 
"It  isn't  mine." 

:  "Some  one  else  a'comin'?"  called  the  youth 
after  him. 

"Think  there  must  be,"  he  replied  over  his 
shoulder. 

The  house  was  near.  It  was  one  of  the  very 
few  wooden  buildings  in  the  adobe  village,  and 
had  been  painted  yellow.  At  the  front  door  sat 
a  slouchy  fat  man  with  one  eye,  who  got  up  as 
the  stranger  approached.     He  was  lame. 

"I  was  told  you  could  keep  me  here,"  began 
the  thin  man,  depositing  his  carpet-bag  on  a 
bench  along  the  house-front. 

WezeLtook  out  his  pipe  and  spat  before-say- 
ing, "Naturally.    It's  ttoe  only  hotel  in  town." 


THE/  CQMING  OF   STANCE  .l6l 

"Can  I  have  a  room?" 

'1  guess  you  could  There's  three; with  beds 
-to  'enl  and  no  one  here  nor  likejy  comin'.  They 
ain't  rnuch  choice.    Will  I  take  your  grip?" 

His  good  eye  was  red  and  sleepy. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Or,  wait;  Til  come  and  see 
the  rooms.    I  might  have  a  preference." 

As  they  entered  the  dingy  hall  the  landlord 
said,;  slowly,  sucking  his  pipe,  "They  ain't  no 
choice  in  summer.  I  wouldn't  sleep  in  none  of 
'em,    And  they're  all  two  dollars  a  day." 

"Some  more  people  are  coming,"  said  the  tall 
man -mildly. ,  The  sleepy  eye,  began  to  waken. 
"Some  soldiers." 

.  "Where  are  they  at  now?"  asked  Wezel  doubt- 
ingly. 

"They  got  off  above.  I  dare  say  they'll  be  here 
soon." 

"Wanted  to  march  down,  I  reckon,  for  the 
exercise,"  suggested  the  host,  wiping  his  red, 
sweating  face. 

The  stranger,  going  so  quickly  from  one  mis- 
erable, room  to  another  as  to  give  the  lame  man 
no  time  for  another  slow  question,,  picked  out 
the  best  of  the  three.  He  left  his  valise  and  his 
duster  on  the  bed.  His  clothes  were  black.  He 
•was  cleanshaven. 

§  When  they  were  again  down-stairs,  "I  sup- 
pose that's  the  church,"  he  said,  pointing  to-  a 
triangular-topped  facade  across  the  trees. 


162  THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

"Naturally." 

"And  Father  Emanuele  lives  right  there?" 

"If  he  ain't  dead,"  said  Wezel,  with  a  choking 
cough  by  way  of  laugh,  "and  gone  to  purgatory. 
Wait  a  minute.    You  have  to  make  your  mark." 

He  limped  inside  and  came  out  with  a  dog's- 
eared  leather-covered  ledger. 

"You're  no  friend  of  the  Father's,"  said  the 
stranger  tentatively,  glancing  at  Wezel  as  he 
wrote. 

"  'Joseph  Dumain,'  "  read  the  host,  taking  the 
book,  "I  ain't  no  man's  enemy.  Residence, 
please;  or  last  temporary  residence.  Pueblo'll 
go." 

Dumain,  taking  book  and  pencil  again,  wrote, 
saying:  "As  it  happens,  I  do  reside  there.  So 
you  don't  object  to  the  Father?" 

"If  it  ain't  one  Father  it's  bound  to  be  an- 
other," answered  Wezel,  dispassionately,  "I  ain't 
no  Catholic  myself,  nor  no  Saint.  But  Emanuele 
don't  bother  me,  if  he  is  a  damn  fool." 

Dumain  wrote  "S.  J."  after  his  name. 

"I  see  your  last  guest  was  more  than  a  week 
ago,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  Leather  Jimson  after  a  horse.  The 
boys  is  all  gone  up  to  Cripple,  most;  and  the 
place  is  dull.  But  if  there's  soldiers  a-comin'*— • 
Say,  look  here,"  his  eye  grew  intelligent,  "strang- 
er, do  you  know  the  row?    Is  it  Saints?    Nit? 


THE   COMING   OF   STANGE  163 

Then,  say,  is  it  the  San  Rafaelers?    My,  there'll 
be  some  fun,  sure!" 

Dumain  only  nodding-  mysteriously,  left  him; 
and  with  a  curious  glance  up  the  railway  track, 
hurried  off  towards  the  church. 

Wezel  with  another  choking  chuckle  also 
looked  up  the  straight,  narrowing  track.  Shad- 
ing his  eye,  he  could  see  something.  Not  a  train; 
it  must  be  a  hand-car.  Squinting  with  his  good 
eye,  he  moved  into  the  shade  and  watched  it. 
When  it  got  nearer,  he  could  see  that  it  was 
worked  by  five  blue-legged  men  with  their  coats 
off.  He  was  not  near  enough  to  hear  their 
swearing. 

He  went  inside  a  minute  to  see  how  many 
full  bottles  of  whisky  he  had.  When  he  came 
out  again,  the  soldiers,  with  their  coats  over  their 
arms,  were  tramping  over  from  the  station. 

"Hello,"  shouted  one  of  them.  "Got  two 
rooms?" 

"Got  any  whisky?"  asked  a  young  one  with 
a  blonde  mustache. 

"Go  it  easy,  Alfie,"  said  the  dark  one. 

"Got  enough  stuff  to  keep  us  for  a  week?" 
pursued  Alfie.  "Greens;  we  must  have  lettuce. 
Rob  the  trains,"  as  Wezel  shook  his  head.  "The 
old  priest  over  there  has  got  it,  I'll  bet." 

He  and  the  three  privates  set  themselves  along 
the  bench,  wiping  their  glowing  faces  and  necks. 
The  dark  man,  standing,  said  quietly:  "There  are 


164  THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

two  of  us  officers  and  twenty  men.  The  rest  are 
coming  along  down  the  road  with  the  Sergeant. 
We  may  be  here  a  week." 

He  put  on  his  blouse,— that  of  a  Captain, 

"Alfie,  put  on  your  blouse;  you're  too  hot. 
Tell  the  men  to  put  on  theirs.  We  ain't  used  to 
this  heat  up  north." 

'T  got  one  room  taken,  that's  all,"  said  Wezel. 
"He  come  on  the  train.    I  reckon  you  seen  him." 

"Good  God,  is  he  here?"  cried  Alfie,  jumping 
up.  "Where  is  he?  Will  I  kick  him  when  I 
get  him?  The  scoundrel!  A  thin  actor  chump 
in  a  duster?  That's  the  man.  Oh,  just  wait. 
What  the  hell  did  he  make  us  get  off  up  there 
for?" 

The  privates  added  to  the  cursing. 

"He  wanted  to  get  the  best  room,"  said  Alfie, 
who  was  a  Lieutenant,  answering  his  own  ques- 
tion. 

"He's  gone  to  see  the  priest,"  the  Captain 
turned  to  explain  to  the  other.  "We'll  have  to 
wait  till  he  gets  back  before  we  go  there.  I 
wonder  who  he  can  be?" 

"I  got  his  name  in  the  book,"  said  Wezel, 
blinking  excitedly. 

"Fetch  it  out,"  cried  Alfie.    "Trot  along." 

Wezel  limped  briskly  in  and  got  it. 

"Joseph  Dumain,  S.  J.,"  read  the  Captain. 
"What's  <S.  J.?'" 

"Society  of  Jesus.     He's  a  damned  Jesuit!" 


THE   COMING  OF   STANGE  165 

exclaimed  Alfie.  "He  stopped  us  so  as  to  give 
old  Emanuele  warning." 

"There's  more  in  it  than  that,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, considering.  "What  good  would  that  do? 
He'll  know  soon  enough,  anyway.  Here  he 
comes." 

"Where  is  his  dirty  duster?"  said  Alfie.  "He 
looks  like  a  priest  now,  doesn't  he?" 

"Will  you  make  your  marks,  gentlemen,  while 
we  wait?"  said  Wezel,  offering  the  book.  "He 
walks  slower  than  he  did  before,  when  he  was 
with  me." 

The  Captain  wrote: 

"Capt.  Dan  Houghteling,  U.  S.  A." 

"Alfred  Stange,  U.  S.  A." 

"You  don't  want  the  names  of  the  men,"  he 
said. 

"Put  'and  twenty  men/  "  suggested  Stange. 

Wezel  looked  wistfully  at  Stange's  good- 
natured  young  face. 

"I've  always  had  everybody's  name  what  come 
to  the  hotel." 

"Cameron'll  write  them  down  for  you;"  with 
his  head  he  jerked  the  reassured  innkeeper  to- 
wards the  seated  soldiers. 

As  Cameron  after  some  consultation  with  his 
comrades  began  with  dignity  to  write,  Stange 
turned  to  where  the  Jesuit  was  bowing  to 
Houghteling. 

The  Captain  bowed  stiffly  in  return. 


166    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 


"Captain  Houghteling?"  asked  Dumain,  af- 
firmatively. 

Alfie  Stange,  with  a  mocking  salute  cried, 
"Why  the  deuce  did  you  dump  us  off  back  there 
for?" 

Dumain  looked  inquiringly  at  Houghteling, 
who  smiled  and  said  nothing.  After  a  moment 
he  asked,  complaisantly,  "I  suppose  you  make 
the  same  inquiry  as  Mr.  Stange?" 

"How  does  he  know  all  our  names?"  said 
Alfie  over  his  shoulder  to  Wezel;  and  then  he 
cried  to  Dumain:  "Of  course,  he  does.  Explain, 
old  man." 

Dumain  took  off  his  soft  hat  to  wipe  his  fore- 
head. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  said  smiling,  "being 
the  oldest,  I  wanted  the  best  room.  And  I  am 
sure  you  wouldn't  begrudge  it  to  me  if  you  saw 
it.  Secondly,"  he  went  on,  studying  the  Cap- 
tain's set  face,  "I  wanted  to  see  the  village  Father, 
Emanuele,  first,  before  you  came.  But,  as  it 
happens  in  that,  too,  I  am  foiled.  He  is  gone 
down  the  Valley  for  the  afternoon." 

"Serves  you  right,"  laughed  Stange. 

Houghteling's  face  continued  black. 

"But  come,"  said  Dumain  briskly,  "let  us  go 
inside  where  I  can  explain  it  all  more  fully.  Will 
you  come?  Bring  any  of  your — if  you  will.  I 
don't  know  what  confidence  you  place  in  your 
men." 


THE   COMING   OF   STANGE  167 

Houghteling  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"I  wish  the  Sergeant  was  here,"  he  said  aloud 
to  himself.    "He  has  some  good  ideas." 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Wezel  will  join  us,  too,"  con- 
tinued Dumain.    "I  believe  we  may  trust  him." 

Peter  Wezel,  hearing  this,  came  limping  along 
with  the  book. 

"We  were  told  so,"  said  Stange;  "which  is 
more  than  we  know  about  you." 

Houghteling  smiled  grimly. 

"So  I  understood,"  agreed  Dumain  unruffled, 
"I  also  was  told  that  Mr.  Wezel  is, — I  may  say, 
— on  our  side." 

He  put  his  hand  through  Stange's  arm  as 
they  went  in.    He  was  taller  than  Stange. 

There  was  a  large  rough  table  in  the  rougher 
wooden  room  which  untidily  served  as  bar  and 
parlor.  The  four  silently  took  sides  round  it, 
Dumain  opposite  the  Captain.  Alfie's  sword 
clanked  against  his  chair-legs;  Houghteling  took 
his  on  his  knees. 

"First  may  I  order  a  little  whisky  or  some- 
thing to  drink  on  this  hot  day?"  began  Dumain 
cordially. 

Wezel,  jumping  up  with  professional  skill,, 
ietched  a  bottle  and  glasses. 

"Some  water,  too,"  said  Houghteling  sharply. 

No  one  spoke  while  the  glasses  were  rilling. 
When  Wezel  came  last  to  Dumain,  the  Jesuit 
covered  his  glass  with  his  hand  and  reached  for 


168  THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

the  dirty  water  decanter.  Alfie  smiled.  Hough- 
teling  pushed  his  glass  of  weak  whisky  and 
water  from  him.  Alfie  raised  his  eyebrows  at 
nobody. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Suddenly  Alfie 
Stange  reached  for  his  glass;  Wezel  followed 
his  example.  Both  took  deep  draughts  just  as 
Dumain  began  to  say  to  the  Captain:  "It  is  just 
as  well  to  keep  one's  head  clear." 

Then  he  began,  leaning  over  the  table  and 
speaking  somewhat  as  if  he  were  addressing  a 
large  audience:  "Gentlemen,  as  you  probably 
know,  I  am  a  Jesuit.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say 
how  my  superiors  came  to  know  you  were  being 
sent  down  here  in  regard  to  the  reported  trouble 
at  San  Rafael.  Probably  such  a  movement, 
though  your  numbers  are  small,  is  not  altogether 
to  be  kept  a  secret.  Anyway,  I  dare  say,  if  a 
demonstration  in  that  village  is  prevented  it 
will  satisfy  you  as  well  as  if  one  is  made  and 
put  down." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  mumbled  Alfie.  "There 
are  no  others." 

Houghteling  looked  unrelaxing.  Dumain 
watched  him  narrowly  for  a  minute,  and  then 
said  directly  to  Wezel,  who  was  at  one  side,  "To 
be  sure  it  has  been  said  that  an  ounce  of  pre- 
vention is  worth  a  pound  of  cure.  And  of  course, 
I  do  not  know  what  your  plans  may  be;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  great  deal  more 


THE   COMING   OF   STANGE  169 

effective  to  let  the  Penitentes  get  to  the  point 
almost  of  their  ceremony  and  then  to  stop  them 
in  the  act,  than  merely  to  prevent  them  by  your 
presence.  For  yon  might  have  to  do  that  every 
year;  and  the  other  would  break  up  the  affair 
forever.  The  Archbishop, — I  may  say  the  Holy 
Father  himself,  for  in  the  church  even  a  detail 
so  remote  is  considered  important, —  the  Arch- 
bishop fully  sympathizes  with  the  Governmental 
desire  to  stamp  out  this  superstitious  practice, 
however  it  is  to  be  done;  and  that  is  why  I 
am  here." 

"Why  doesn't  the  Holy  Father  stamp  it  out 
in  Mexico?"  demanded  Alfie.  "There's  plenty  of 
crucifying  there." 

Dumain  merely  glanced  at  Stange  and  went 
on,  to  Houghteling:   "So  in  order  that " 

"That's  a  rather  good  point  of  Lieutenant 
Stange's,"  Houghteling  interrupted.  "How 
about  Mexico?" 

Alfie  smiled  pertly  at  the  priest.  Wezel  seemed 
most  interested  in  occasional  sips  of  whisky. 

Quite  unruffled,  Dumain  explained:  "Of 
course,  the  initiative  of  the  Government  is  need- 
ed, which  is  quite  wanting  in  Mexico,  so  far  as 
opposition  to  the  criminal  rites  of  the  Penitentes 
goes.  The  church  militant  is  not  extant  in  this 
century,  except  metaphorically.  But  really,  this 
is  a  side  issue.  It  is  a  fact,  if  you  will  believe  it, 
that  my  superior  officers  have  sent  me  down  here 


170    THE   PENITENTES  OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

for  no  other  purpose  than  to  assist  you,  if  you 
will  let  me." 

"Quite  without  any  desire  on  the  part  of  our 
superior  officers,  I  suppose,"  replied  Houghtel- 
ing  coldly. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other  simply, 
"very  likely  with  some  understanding.  I  don't 
inquire  into  my  superiors'  reasons.  I  obey 
orders." 

"So  do  I,"  retorted  Houghteling;  "and  I  have 
none  about  you." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Dan,"  cried  Stange. 

"Don't  you  be  insubordinate,  young  man," 
said  the  Captain,  with  his  first  real  smile. 

"I  suppose  you  are  here  with  some  warrant  to 
exercise  your  discretion,"  said  Dumain  calmly. 
"Otherwise  I  will  not  inquire  into  your  plans. 
At  least,  until  we  are  on  terms  of  confidence." 

"I  don't  suppose,"  replied  Houghteling  with 
more  openness  than  he  had  yet  shown,  "that  if 
we  did  take  you  into  our  confidence  and  you 
betrayed  it,  that  you  could  prevent  our  doing 
what  we  came  for.  Either  the  San  Rafaelers 
would  get  scared  and  give  up  their  performance, 
which  is  just  what  we  want;  or  even  if  they 
didn't,  you  could  hardly  raise  an  armed  force  to 
prevent  our  preventing  them;   safely." 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Alfie. 

Dumain  said,  "I  should  think  that  is  so." 

"Oh,  we  ought  to  fight,"  said  Alfie  seriously. 


THE   COMING  OF   STANGE  171 

"After  coming  all  the  way  to  this  hole,  the  best 
thing  we  can  do  is  to>  encourage  them  to  go  on 
with  their  little  circus  and  then  waltz  up  and 
clean  them  out  and  stop  it  forever." 

"Certainly  I  should  say  that's  the  best  plan 
to  pursue/'  agreed  Dumain. 

Wezel  ventured  his  first  remark.  "Naturally," 
he  said. 

"I  don't  say  that  a  little  firing  of  rifles  mightn't 
be  the  surest  way  to  scare  them  into  decency  for 
a  few  years,"  said  Houghteling;  "but  I  don't 
understand  that  rny  orders  are  to  proceed  on  that 
basis;   and  so  I  do  not  intend  to." 

"Well,  whatever  lines  you  decide  to  proceed 
on,"  replied  Dumain,  "I  shall  help  you  all  I  can. 
All  you  will  let  me,  that  is;  for  I  assure  you  that 
I  am  here  for  no  other  purpose.  Here  is  a  letter 
I  have  to  Father  Emanuele  from  my  superiors." 
He  took  it  out  and  put  it  on  the  rough  table,  in 
front  of  Houghteling.  "I  dare  say  you  are  going 
there  to  see  him  yourself " 

"Yes,"  said  Stange  promptly. 

"I  see  no  need  of  it,"  said  Houghteling.  "Of 
course,  I  shall  send  word  to  the  Penitentes  them- 
selves that  we  are  here." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dumain. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  see  the  old  man,"  Stange 
insisted  in  a  joking  tone. 

"Then  go  and  see  him  yourself,"  said  Hough- 
teMng. 


172    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"What  damn  nonsense!" 

"At  all  events,"  began  Dumain,  "it  will  do  no 
harm  for  me  to  stir  him  up  about  it,  too,  and 
get  him  to  send  them  a  warning  message,  which 
may  have  more  effect  in  making  them  desist  than 
yours.  From  what  I  hear  they  are  a  stubborn 
fool-hardy  folk,  and  crafty.  You  can  trust  me 
to  do  all  I  can, — that  is,  if  you  can  trust  me." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Stange  who  was  next 
him.  Alfie  jumped  up  with  rattling  sword  and 
gave  it  a  good  grasp.  "You  might  as  well  shake 
hands  with  a  man,  if  he  is  bound  to  be  on  your 
side,"  he  said. 

The  Captain  also  stood  up.  He  took  the  letter, 
which  was  unsealed,  slowly  opened  it,  and 
though  it  was  short,  read  it  as  slowly.  When 
he  had  given  it  back  to  the  priest,  he  said:  "If 
you  will  go  out  now,  I  will  join  you  in  a  minute. 
Or  I  will  go "  but  the  priest  had  gone. 

Wezel,  having  finished  his  second  glass,  wen* 
too,  limping  more  than  ever.  Houghteling  shut 
the  door  and  put  his  hand  on  Alfie's  shoulder, 
who  stood  in  front  of  him. 

"What  do  you  think,  Alf?" 

"Why,  he's  all  right,"  said  Alfie.  "What 
harm  can  he  do?  I  don't  see  what  the  devil  they 
sent  him  here  for,  but " 

"That's  the  trouble,"  said  Houghteling.  "I 
don't  know  what  harm  he  can  do,  but  I  am  sus- 
picious of  him.     He  may  be  up  to  something 


THE   COMING   OF   STANGE  173 

we  have  no  idea  of.  However,  I  have  got  no 
cause  to  arrest  him;  so  I  suppose  the  best  I  can 
do  is  to  let  him  be,  but  to  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"Yes,  damn  it  all!"  agreed  Alfie. 

"Shall  I  telegraph  to  his — to  the  Archbishop?" 

"To  the  Pope!  Don't  be  a  fool.  You  said 
yourself  he  couldn't  hurt." 

"Yes;  but  he's  a  Jesuit.  Shall  I  telegraph  for 
orders?" 

"And  sewer  yourself.  If  you  don't,  this  busi- 
ness will  do  your  work  for  you,  and  you'll  be  a 
General  yet,  old  man.  Run  it  all  yourself,  and 
I'll  back  you.    Only  I  should  like  a  little  fight.' 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Houghteling.    "Come  on/ 

Stange  put  his  arm  round  his  Captain's  shoul 
der,  for  the  moment  they  were  in  the  dark  hall 
way. 

"I  don't  half  like  him;  he  insulted  us  both,' 
said  Houghteling. 

"Gad!  you're  more  touchy  than  if  you'd  been 
a  proper  West  Pointer  yourself,"  retorted 
Stange. 

Houghteling  walked  up  to  the  Jesuit  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  him  in  the  sight  of  all  the  soldiers 
and  the  others.    Dumain  shook  it  very  cordially. 

"I  think  I  must  go  over  to  the  priest  again 
and  find  out  what  is  going  on,"  said  he;  "he 
is  certainly  back  by  this  time.  We  haven't  any 
time  to  lose,  I  suppose.  Will  you  send  notice  to 
the  Penitentes  this  evening?" 


174    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"No,  to-morrow  morning  will  be  time  enough, 
I  should  think,"  answered  Houghteling  with  a 
side  glance  at  him.  "I'll  wait  to  hear  your  re- 
port.    When  is  San  Rafael's  day?" 

"Next  Monday,  you  know." 

Houghteling  nodded. 

Stange,  who  had  been  watching  a  cloud  of  dust 
approach  along  the  distant  road,  announced, 
"They  are  coming." 

The  others  looked  into  the  glare. 

"You  haven't  so  very  many  men,"  said  Du- 
main,  as  he  started  off. 

"You  ought  to  get  the  Saints  to  help  you," 
exclaimed  Wezel,  suddenly  waking  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

Dumain  paused.    "You  mean  the  Mormons." 

Then  he  walked  away. 


XXI 

FAY  GRADY 

THE  same  afternoon  that  the  soldiers  came 
to  Antonito  there  was  acted  in  the  kitch- 
en of  Father  Emanuele's  house  a  scene 
of  a  sort  that  was  becoming  too  frequent  there. 
Father  Emanuele's  sister  having  finished  a  pious 
and  solitary  prayer  at  her  prie-dieu  in  her  own 
room,  glided  thinly  down  stairs, — the  priest's 
house,  like  the  hotel,  and  like  no  other  house  in 
Antonito,  has  two  stories, — and  on  to  the  kitchen. 
At  the  door  she  stopped  abruptly  to  gaze  in,  in 
horror;  for  all  Senorita  Tecla's  emotions  were 
raised  a  few  degrees  above  the  normal.  In  the 
middle  of  the  large  room,  through  which  blew  a 
gentle  and  pleasant  breeze,  she  saw,  with  hand 
on  the  very  crank  of  the  horizontal  barrel-churn, 
and  her  plump  figure  in  its  shining  green  gown 
nearly  rolling  off  the  chair,  Fay  Grady  sound 
asleep. 

Emanuele,  when  he  first  came  to  the  cure  of 
Antonito,  had  brought  with  him  his  blooming 
young  sister.  Thin  and  wavy  even  then,  there 
were  still  to  be  found  very  old  people  with 
enough  justice  to  admit  that  she  had  been  pretty 
in  a  cold  un-Spanish  way,  not  the  way  admired 
in  the  San  Luis  Valley.    As  the  pious  spinster 

175 


176    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

lived  on  from  year  to  year  and  yet  to  other  years, 
she  had  become,  though  without  making  a 
friend,  the  ideal  of  etiquette  in  Antonito,  and 
even  farther  north  than  La  Jara,  and  over  east 
into  Las  Animas  County  across  the  Sangre  de 
Cristo  range.  The  worst  one  could  say  of  her 
was  that  she  was  stingy  and  cross. 

During  these  decades  she  had  spun  among 
her  maids, — to  use  a  metaphor,  for  she  never 
spun,  and  her  one  maid  had  invariably  been  old 
and  ugly — till,  a  few  months  before,  having  to 
replace  the  third  defunct  duenna,  she  had 
allowed  her  charity  and  her  sense  of  the  need  of 
propaganda  to  be  so  worked  on  that  she  at- 
tached to  her  a  young  Mormon  girl  from  the 
neighboring  saintly  village  of  Manassa.  It  may 
be  imagined  what  confusion  a  lazy  young 
heathen  Irish  girl  induced  in  Sefiorita  Tecla's 
conventionalized  domestic  economy. 

When,  therefore,  she  now  saw  Fay  Grady  doz- 
ing at  her  task,  Tecla  fairly  swam  down  the  two 
steps  that  led  into  the  kitchen  and  dealt  the  lazy 
one  a  good  box  on  the  ear.  While  she  was 
raising  her  prayer-book  to  strike  again,  Fay 
jumped  up,  almost  upsetting  the  churn  and  quite 
upsetting  the  chair,  which  rattled  loudly  on  the 
wooden  floor. 

"That's  right!  Deafen  the  Father!"  choked 
Tecla.  Having  been  bred  in  an  Eastern  convent 
she  spoke  English  better  than  Spanish. 


FAY  GRADY  177 

Fay  gazed  at  her  rather  stupidly  with  her  in- 
tensely gray  eyes.  Then  she  drawled:  "The 
Father's  gone  to  Conejos." 

"Why  are  you  neglecting  your  work?"  de- 
manded Tecla  hotly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Fay.  "Guess  I  must  V 
been  sleepy." 

"Don't  answer  back.  How  often  have  I  told 
you?  Go  on  with  your  churning;  and  then  you 
will  have  to  read  some  to  me.  Hurry  up;  go 
on. 

Fay  was  slow  of  motion  for  eighteen.  How- 
ever, she  got  the  creaking  crank  started  round 
again,  while  Tecla  sat  down  opposite,  one  finger 
in  her  book,  and  listened  grimly  to  the  chunking 
swish  of  the  milk.  Fay,  for  some  time,  with 
vacant  eyes,  turned  the  monotonous  handle. 
Tecla  opened  her  book  and  read  one  prayer.  Then 
she  said  so  suddenly  that  the  plump  girl  gave  a 
start:  "Let  me  hear  you  say  your  letters,  Fay 
Grady." 

Fay  immediately  began,  "A,  B.  C,"  and  speak- 
ing very  deliberately,  four  letters  to  each  revo- 
lution of  the  big  churn,  ended  the  alphabet  with- 
out any  mistake.  There  was  no  complaint  for 
Tecla  to  make,  except,  "You'll  have  to  learn 
them  faster.  But  I  expect  your  mind  is  slow. 
It's  taken  me  a  good  while  teaching  you  that 
little  bit." 

Fay  was  silent.    At  last  she  said,  looking  over 


178    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

from  her  task:  "Can  I  go  to  Manassa  this  after- 
noon?" 

"Not  till  your  work  is  done,  I  told  you," 
answered  the  spinster  sharply. 

Fay  looked  meek.  She  always  looked  meek 
when  she  wasn't  laughing. 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  go  over  to  see  your 
aunt  and  your  little  sister." 

"No,"  said  guileless  Fay;  "I  thought  I'd  go 
to  the  Wivverses.  I  told  Naphtali  I'd  come  over 
to-day.    You  said  I  could." 

"Fay  Grady,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  say 
such  a  thing." 

"It's  so,"  said  Fay  simply,  changing  arms. 

"I  believe  it  would  be  gracious  to  lie  about  it 
then.  You  can't  marry  that  man.  I  won't  let 
you  go  till  all  your  work  is  finished." 

The  Sefiorita  had  a  watch.  She  referred  to 
it  now. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  do  want  to  be  his  second 
wife,"  observed  Fay;  "but  he's  a  elder.  At  least 
he's  the  most  of  a  elder  in  Manassa." 

"Among  heathen!"  added  the  mistress.  "It's 
bad  enough  to  be  first  wife  to  one  of  them.  But 
it's  shameful  and  wicked  to  think  of  being 
second.  And  I  won't  have  it!  You  were  put 
here  with  me  to  get  a  good  home  and  righteous 
instruction.  And  I  won't  let  you  be  running 
off  with  such  people.  And  besides  it's  illegal, 
too." 


FAY  GRADY  1 79 

"Well,  I  know  other  things,"  began  Fay  mon- 
otonously, "that's  just  as  illegal  as  that.  An' 
you  like  'em.    There's  San  Rafael." 

Tecla  held  in  her  anger  till  she  was  able  to 
speak  steadily. 

"You  don't  know  anything  about  Christian 
practices." 

"No,  I  don't;"  said  Fay  quite  innocently  and 
a  trifle  bored,  "and  I  don't  want  to.  I'm  a 
Mormon,"  she  added. 

After  this  for  some  time  there  was  silence, 
except  for  the  swashing  of  the  milk  and  Tecla's 
hard  breathing.    Then  the  churn  creaked. 

"Is  the  butter  coming?"  asked  Tecla. 

"I  reckon  it's  come,"  answered  Fay,  opening 
the  churn. 

She  stretched  her  tired  arm. 

"Now,  I'll  have  you  read  a  little,"  began 
Tecla,  opening  her  book  at  random  and  handing 
it  to  Fay. 

The  girl,  taking  it  quietly,  began  to  run  one 
fat  finger  along  the  lines  of  print.  Occasionally 
she  would  stop  an  instant,  look  harder  at  the 
page,  and  call  out,  always  on  the  same  note,  "A," 
or  "an,"  or  "the,"  or  "B.  V.  M."  As  these  four 
were  the  only  words  Fay  could  read,  the  recital, 
after  a  page  or  two,  became,  even  to  the  teacher, 
tiresome.  But  she  could  not  understand  the 
girl's  own  dislike  of  the  proceeding.  To  her  the 
familiar  prayers  were  very  beautiful. 


180    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

After  a  while  she  said,  "That  will  do  now. 
It's  queer  you  don't  learn  faster." 

Fay  closed  the  book  and  jumped  up  really 
quickly. 

"You  have  on  your  green  gown,"  proclaimed 
the  mistress. 

"I  know  it." 

"I  suppose  that  was  because  you  intended  go- 
ing over  to  let  that  Morman  man  see  you." 

"My  other  one's  tore,"  drawled  Fay. 

"Where?" 

"I  caught  it  on  the  pump." 

"Then  you  must  set  to  work  and  mend  it," 
said  Tecla  firmly. 

"Now?"  asked  the  girl  disheartened. 

"To  be  sure.  Now.  If  you  were  so  careless 
to  tear  it." 

"Then  I  can't  go  to  Manassa." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can,"  she  nodded  grimly. 

Fay  made  no  protest. 

Just  then  came  a  knocking  at  the  front  door, 
which  could  be  plainly  heard  in  the  kitchen.  It 
was  seldom  any  one  used  the  front  knocker. 
Tecla  told  Fay  to  run  and  see  who  was  there. 

"I  guess  he's  back  to  see  the  Father,"  said 
Fay;   "what  will  I  say?" 

"Well,  you  know  he's  not  at  home." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Fay,  stopping.  "I  seen 
him  come  in  on  his  donkey  a  while  ago." 


FAY  GRADY  l8l 

"See  if  he's  in  the  study,  then;  and  let  the 
visitor  in  there.    Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  it,"  drawled  Fay;  "I  was 
readin'." 

Then  she  went  out. 

After  a  few  minutes  she  came  back.  Tecla 
was  still  sitting  in  the  same  chair.  The  girl 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  asked  slowly, 
"Will  I  get  the  dress?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Get  it  right  away  and  bring 
it  here." 

Fay  went  ponderously  up  the  three  steps  again 
and  disappeared. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  returned  again 
with  the  torn  skirt.  Fay  knew  how  to  do  some 
things;  and  as  she  started  her  mending,  so  deftly 
that  her  mistress  at  least,  for  once  could  not 
criticise, — Tecla  began  in  an  acridly  pathetic 
tone:  "I  hope  you  will  soon  be  converted,  Fay 
Grady.  Your  soul  is  very  hardened.  Here  you 
live  right  under  the  Father's  influence  and 
mine " 

"I  don't  want  to  be  converted,"  said  Fay  dis- 
passionately; "I  was  converted  once  and  I  don't 
expect  I  will  be  converted  any  more.  I  don't 
want  to  be.  I  was  eight  years  old  when  I  was 
converted." 

"And  to  think  that  before  that  you  were  a 
Christian!" 

"The  Saints  is  good  enough,"  replied  Fay 


182    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

quietly.  Then  she  exclaimed,  more  suddenly 
than  was  her  wont:  "This  red  thread's  all  used 
up." 

And  before  the  Sefiorita  had  made  any  protest, 
the  girl  had  taken  up  her  sun  hat  off  the  table, 
and  was  out  the  open  back  door  into  the  hot 
sunshine. 

Tecla  was  not  inquisitive.  Where  she  sat  was 
in  easy  call  if  her  brother  wished  her  for  any- 
thing. She  opened  her  book  and  began  to 
read  her  prayers. 


XXII 
PRIEST    MEETS    PRIEST 

WHEN  Dumain  left  the  soldiers  at  the 
hotel  he  went  again  down  the  few 
hundred  yards  of  dusty  hot  road 
that  led  past  the  scattering  adobe  houses  of 
Antonito  to  the  church  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  The  yellow  church,  with  its  rather  well- 
outlined,  Mexican-looking  fagade,  faced  directly 
on  the  road.  The  broad  clerical  house  next  had 
a  garden  in  front.  At  one  side  the  house  abutted 
on  the  church,  but  so  far  back  that  an  inside  door 
from  Emanuele's  study,  a  front  room,  led  imme- 
diately into  the  sacristy  behind  the  chancel. 

Dumain  crossed  the  sparse,  but  semi-tropical 
garden  to  the  front  door,  where  it  was  cool  in 
the  shade.  Though  the  door  was  open,  he 
knocked  with  the  great  iron  knocker.  This  time 
he  was  answered  after  a  minute  or  so  by  a  fat  girl 
in  shiny  green,  who  pointed  to  a  closed  door  and 
said,  "Go  in  there." 

Dumain,  opening  the  door  for  himself,  went 
into  a  large,  half-dark,  inhabited-looking  room. 
At  one  end  a  fat  priest  in  a  black  gown  lay  back 
resting  in  an  easy  chair.  As  Dumain  came  in, 
he  sat  up  straight. 

"You  will  pardon  me  for  not  knocking,"  said 

113 


184    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

the  Jesuit;  "but  your  servant  directed  me  to 
come  in." 

The  fat  priest  stood  up,  and  gazed  at  him  in 
stupid  silence. 

'This  will  explain  my  coming." 

Dumain  offered  him  the  letter.  Holding  it 
near  his  eyes,  the  priest  read  as  follows,  mum- 
bling the  words: 

"To  Father  Emanuele  Miero  in  Antonito, — 

"Our  beloved  Father, — 

"This  will  be  brought  to  you  by  our  confiden- 
tial servant  Father  Joseph  Dumain. 

"In  all  things  he  is  in  our  confidence  and 
merits  yours. 

"We  will  not  deny  that  his  errand  has  some 
special  connection  with  the  parish  of  San  Rafael. 

'The  Grace  of  God  be  with  you. 

"Ignatius  Stanley,  S.  J." 

The  letter  was  neither  dated  nor  headed. 

After  reading  it,  Father  Emanuele  rather  aim- 
lessly gave  Dumain  his  large  soft  hand.  He 
seemed  confused. 

"I  have  been  up  to  Conejos  today  to  give 
Extreme  Unction,"  he  began;  "I  rode  such  a 
long  way.  It  was  very  sad,"  he  rambled  on. 
"Will  you  s;t  down?  I  have  not  been  very 
well." 

Dumain  sat  opposite,  and  looked  steadily  at 
the  broad,  sallow  face. 

At  last  Emanuele  went  on  in  his  thick  voice, 


PRIEST    MEETS    PRIEST  185 

"It  is  something  to  do  with  San  Rafael;  with 
the  Stigmata.    Will  you  have  some  wine?" 

Getting  up  feebly  he  fetched  from  a  large  side- 
board a  decanter  of  red  liquor  and  two  small 
glasses. 

"Cherry-brandy,"  he  announced  absent- 
mindedly,  as  he  sat  down  again. 

This  time  Dumain  did  not  refuse  to  drink. 

"It  has  something  to  do  with  San  Rafael,"  the 
host  began  again,  choking  over  his  brandy. 
"Then  you  have  come  down  to  see  it?  You  are 
interested  in  it?    It  is  a  beautiful  custom." 

Dumain  said  nothing. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  interested  in  it.  It  has  al- 
ways  appealed  deeply  to  me.  To  receive  the 
Stigmata — ,"  with  an  effort  he  rose  and  went 
into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room. 

Coming  back,  he  continued:  "To  receive  the 
sacred  Stigmata  is  not  given  to  every  one.  She 
received  them."  He  showed  a  large  photograph 
of  Carpaccio's  painting  in  Dresden.  "That  is 
Saint  Catherine  of  Sienna.  She  received  them; 
all  seven,  the  marks  in  the  hands  and  in  the  feet 
and  the  spear  thrust  and  the  marks  on  the  brow. 
But  it  is  not  granted  to  many." 

"It  was  a  miracle  in  her  case,"  remarked  Du- 
main. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  holy  miracle  with  Saint  Cath- 
erine, and  others  have  been  vouchsafed  it,  too. 
Saint  Francis  and  others.    It  is  a  miracle  here, 


186    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

too/'  he  added;  "here  at  San  Rafael.  When  they 
do  not  die,  it  is  a  miracle." 

Dumain  looked  unusually  grave. 

"It  is  a  miracle,  however,  not  smiled  upon  by 
the  Government  in  this  country.  You  know  the 
conferring  of  these  Stigmata  is  illegal." 

Father  Emanuele  looked  intently  at  him.  He 
was  extracting  two  cigars  from  a  pocket  in  the 
skirt  of  his  robe.  One  he  offered  to  his  visitor; 
the  other  he  lighted  with  a  trembling  match. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  sighed,  laying  down  his  cigar 
after  one  puff,  "that  everybody  cannot  sympa- 
thize with  us  in  our  deeper  feelings." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  agreed  the  Jesuit. 

Emanuele  shook  his  head  sadly  and  con- 
templatively. 

Dumain  began  again: 

"Some  soldiers  came  down  on  the  train  with 
me. 

Emanuele  considered  before  he  asked:  "Where 
were  they  going?    To  Cripple  Creek  probably." 

"No,  they  got  off  here,"  answered  the  other. 

"Then —  About  the  Mormons?" 

"No,  I  think  about  San  Rafael." 

Emanuele  gazed  at  him  helplessly. 

"I  told  you  the  Government  does  not  ap- 
prove of  the  crucifixion." 

The  old  man  kept  staring  blankly  at  him. 

"Where  are  the  soldiers  staying?"  he  asked. 

"At  the  hotel." 


PRIEST    MEETS    PRIEST  187 

The  priest  was  silent  a  moment. 

Then:  "It  is  a  liberal  Government.  It  has 
never  interfered  before,"  he  said. 

"It  has  threatened." 

"I  have  heard  of  that,"  said  Father  Emanuele, 
with  the  quiet  air  of  a  disinterested  person.  "I 
suppose  there  are  a  great  many." 

"No,  not  very  many.  Two  officers  and  only 
twenty  or  thirty  men.  The  whole  movement 
seems  to  me  a  little  unusual  in  its  plans." 

"It  must  be  very  inconvenient  for  you,"  said 
Emanuele;  "you  will  come  here  and  stay." 

"I  have  a  room  at  the  hotel,  quite  good 
enough.    I  thank  you." 

"You  had  better  come  and  stay  here." 

"I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  Father." 

"No,  no,"  protested  the  Father,  "I  should  like 
to  have  you  here.    It's  the  usual  way." 

rTo  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Dumain,  "I  was 
sent  down  here  expressly  because  it  was  known 
the  soldiers  were  coming;  and  it  was  thought — 
to  be  sure  we  had  no  way  of  telling — 
but  it  was  thought,"  he  said  slowly,  "that 
they  were  coming  to  prevent  the  ceremony  at 
San  Rafael.  So  I  think  it  will  be  better  for  me 
to  stay  at  the  hotel.  They  are  not  at  all 
offensive;  and  I  may  be  able  to  discover  some- 
thing of  their  plans,  which  may  be  of  use  to  you. 
You  know  that  we  Jesuits  pride  ourselves  on 
being  diplomats.     And  it  may  even  be  that  I 


188    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

shall  conceal  my  being  a  Jesuit  and  work  myself 
into  their  confidence.  So  you  see,  I  had  better 
stay  there  for  the  present." 

Father  Emanuele  made  no  protest. 

"But,"  Dumain  proceeded,  "if  it  wouldn't  be 
any  trouble  to  you  to  put  a  room  at  my  dis- 
posal, I  might  find  occasion  to  use  it.  For  you 
know  it  may  turn  out  that  the  expedition  is 
against  the  Mormons  after  all.  We  have  heard 
up  north  some  rumors  of  polygamous  mar- 
riages." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  priest,  "our  maid-servant 
"     He  paused;  Dumain  waited. 

"Our  own  servant,  who  belongs,  sadly  enough, 
to  the  heathenish  creed,  I  am  ashamed  to  say, — 
the  girl  is  engaged  to  marry  a  so-called  Saint  in 
one  of  the  neighboring  towns,  who  already  has 
one  wife." 

"It  is  very  dreadful!"  acquiesced  Dumain. 

"Yes,  very  dreadful!  The  young  woman  is  of 
good  people  from  Georgia;  Irish  people,  poor 
but  worthy,  who  were  perverted  when  she  was  a 
child.  Fay, — the  family's  name  was  Grady, — 
Fay  is  thinking  of  becoming  the  second  wife, — 
concubine  I  call  it, — of  this  adulterous  person  in 
Manassa." 

"The  soldiers  may  well  have  been  sent,  as  you 
say,  for  putting  down  such  scandalous  doings. 
What  do  you  say  the  man's  name  is?w 

"His  name," — the  priest  considered.    "Let  me 


PRIEST    MEETS    PRIEST  189 

see;  I  know  his  name.  Oh,  yes,  Wivvers, — 
something  Wivvers.  It  is  some  Biblical  name, — 
the  shocking  creatures  pretend  to  reverence 
Holy  Scripture.    What  a  ridiculous  pretence !" 

But  he  couldn't  remember  the  name. 

After  this  he  sat  for  some  time  in  dazed  silence, 
smoking  his  cigar.  At  last  Dumain  said:  "What 
must  we  do,  then,  about  the  ceremony  at  San 
Rafael?  If  the  soldiers  prove  to  have  come  for 
that?" 

"Oh,  in  that  case  it  must  be  abandoned.  Cer- 
tainly. Yes,"  he  said.  "I  will  write  to  them  to 
abandon  it  myself." 

"In  that  way  you  will  frustrate  the  soldiers." 

"Yes,  and  of  course,  no  harm  must  come  to 
those  pious  folk  up  there.  I  should  hate  to  have 
one  of  them  suffer." 

"I  can't  help  thinking,"  says  Dumain,  stand- 
ing up,  "that  my  superiors  must  have  been  mis- 
taken. What  you  tell  me  makes  me  feel  almost 
sure  that  their  coming  here  must  be  intended 
against  these  law-breaking  Mormons.  This  is 
the  nearest  Christian  town  to  Manassa,  isn't  it?" 

It  happens  that  it  is;  which  Emanuele  told 
him. 

"And  the  people  in  San  Rafael  have  been  so 
happy  and  so  engrossed  in  preparing  for  their 
beautiful  fete,"  the  fat  old  priest  went  on  in  his 
hoarse  voice.  "This  is  one  of  the  few  parishes 
in  all  America  where  the  Stigmata  are  ever  be- 


190    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

stowed.  The  noble  young  man  who  is  to  under- 
take it  has  been  fasting  for  weeks  and  continu- 
ally carrying  his  cross  tied  on  his  back.  But 
many  do  that,  and  they  have  a  good  priest, 
Father  Maria  de  Jesus.  He  is  impetuous,  but  so 
noble.  They  are  all  impetuous, — they  are  half- 
breeds;  yet  more  religious,  I  sometimes  think, 
than  many  of  us  of  full  blood." 

Dumain  listened  with  interest  to  this  outpour- 
ing from  the  heart.  When  it  ended,  he  asked: 
"How  do  the  people  hereabouts  regard  this  fes- 
tival at  San  Rafael?  Do  they  sympathize?  Are 
the  men  for  it  with  their  souls?" 

"Most  of  our  men  here  in  Antonito  and  gen- 
erally all  through  the  Valley,  excepting  the  Mor- 
mons and  the  people  of  San  Rafael,  are  gone  to 
Cripple  Creek." 

"But  there  must  be  some  left." 

"Only  enough  to  work  the  ranches  and  get 
in  the  crops;  and  not  enough  really  for  that. 
They  work  very  hard.  But  I  fear  they  are  most- 
ly indifferent,"  he  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"Ah,  well,"  exclaimed  Dumain,  "we  can  only 
pray!  I  must  go  for  the  present,"  he  added. 
"You  will  show  me  the  room?" 

Father  Emanuele  moved  painfully  to  the  door 
and  called  hoarsely  for  his  sister. 


XXIII 
STANGE'S   ADVICE 

SOON  after  Dumain  had  left  the  hotel  to  go 
to  the  priest's  house  the  second  time,  the 
rest  of  the  soldiers,  under  command  of  a 
Sergeant,  had  arrived.  Captain  Houghteling, 
taking  the  Sergeant  and  Peter  Wezel  with  him, 
had  gone  inside  to  see  about  their  accommoda- 
tions. Most  of  the  men  had  also  gone  in.  But 
the  three  soldiers  who  had  arrived  before  stayed 
on  the  bench  in  the  comfortable  shade;  and 
Lieutenant  Stange  also  remained  tilting  back  in 
a  chair  near  them. 

Suddenly  he  took  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth, 
let  his  chair  down  on  four  legs,  and  cried,  "By 
George,  here  comes  a  girl! — and  a  white  girl! 
and  a  young  girl!  This  is  the  first  young,  white 
girl  I've  laid  eyes  on  since  I  landed  in  this  cursed 
Valley! — this  morning,"  he  added. 

It  was  Fay  in  her  green  gown. 

"Irish,  I  should  say,  by  the  color  of  her,"  re- 
marked one  of  the  soldiers. 

"Come  here,  girl,"  Alfie  called  to  her,  "and 
let  me  take  your  picture." 

Fay  Grady  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
sandy  road  and  shouted  back,  "I  guess  I  don't 
want  to  be  took." 

191 


192    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

Then  she  started  on  again. 

"Well  come  on  over,  anyway,"  called  Alfie; 
and  she  turned  and  began  to  come.  "I  can't  take 
your  picture,  because  I  haven't  got  any  kodak. 
She's  got  red  cheeks,  too,"  he  said  aloud  to  him- 
self, twisting  his  yellow  mustache. 

The  three  soldiers  stared  with  all  their  six  eyes 
at  Fay  Grady.  As  she  came  near  Stange,  he 
jumped  up. 

''What's  your  name,  my  girl?"  he  asked. 

"My  name's  Fay  Grady." 

"I  knew  you  weren't  Spanish,"  said  Alfie 
promptly;    and  all  the  soldiers  laughed. 

They  had  got  up  too. 

"Stand  away  from  Miss  Grady,  all  you  men," 
said  Alfie.  "Don't  you  know  better  than  to 
crowd  a  lady?" 

The  men  went  back  and  sat  down  again  on  the 
bench,  where  they  made  remarks  to  one  another 
in  a  low  tone. 

"The  Lieut.'s  a  bird  with  the  girls,"  said  one. 

"He's  had  practice,"  concurred  another 

Then  they  listened  to  see  what  would  come 
next. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  escort  you  wherever  you 
are  going?"  Alfie  was  proposing.     "Come  on." 

"I  was  going  to  buy  some  thread,"  drawled 
Fay,  without  moving,  and  looking  up  at  an  open 
window  where  Houghteling  could  be  dimly  seen. 

"Don't  look  up  there.    Look  at  me.    I'm  the 


STANGE'S   ADVICE  193 

Captain,  and  I'm  a  sight  better  looking  than 
he  is." 

"Don't  you  believe  him,"  said  one  of  the  sol- 
diers under  his  breath;  but  Stange  heard  him. 

"Shut  up,  you  fellows,"  he  cried  sharply. 

The  men  laughed  a  little:   but  they  shut  up. 

"I  was  a-goin'  to  Manassa,"  says  Fay;  "but 
I  wasn't  let." 

"And  where  may  Manassa  be?" 

"Over  there,"  indicated  Fay,  pointing;  "where 
the  Saints  live." 

"And  what  the  hell, — I  mean,  what  are  you 
going  over  where  the  Saints  live  for?" 

"I'm  a  Saint,"  said  Fay  Grady. 

One  of  the  men  on  the  bench,  the  middle  one, 
giggled;    and  the  other  two  punched  him. 

Just  then,  the  Captain,  putting  his  head  out 
the  window  above  them,  said:  "Can  you  come 
up  here,  Alfie?" 

Stange  looked  up  at  him. 

"Is  it  a  command  or  a  request?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  a  request,"  replied  Houghteling, 
shortly. 

"Then  I  shan't  come  up  just  yet." 

The  head  quickly  disappeared. 

"He  would  'a'  run  as  quick  as  any  of  us,"  one 
of  the  men  observed  to  the  others,  "if  he  had 
called  it  a  command." 

"Yes;  but  he's  got  privileges  with  the  Cap- 
tain," said  one  of  the  others,  who  was  older. 


194    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"He  understands  discipline  good  enough," 
said  the  third.  "I  wisht  I  could  V  went  to  West 
Point  myself." 

"The  Captain  never  did,"  remarked  the  other 
young  one;   "he  riz." 

"And  a  damn  sight  better  man,  I  say,"  held 
the  old  one. 

"Come  off!"  retorted  the  first  speaker.  "He's 
got  the  head,  maybe,  but  not  the  way  with  him." 

Then  they  stopped.  When  one  is  healthy,  a 
conversation  in  asides  is  too  wearing  to  keep  up 
long. 

In  the  meanwhile  Stange  had  asked  Fay  why 
she  mightn't  go  to  Manassa,  and  she  had  an- 
swered that  she  "dassn't,  'cause"  Miss  Tecla 
wouldn't  let  her;  but  that  she  was  going  any- 
way. And  on  his  inquiry  why  she  wouldn't  let 
her,  Fay  had  recounted  with  commendable  ful- 
ness, that  her  mistress  was  the  Father's  sister, 
and  wanted  to  convert  her,  and  didn't  want  her 
to  be  Naphtali  Wivvers's  second  wife. 

"And  you  want  to  be,  I  suppose." 

"I  ain't  sure.  He's  pretty  rich,  and  he's  a 
elder.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  nobody's  second 
wife." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  first  one  thinks  she's  better  than  you 
are. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Stange.  "I  thought 
the  first  one  was  dead." 


STANGE'S    ADVICE  195 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Fay;  "but  she's  been  joined  to 
him  six  years." 

"Oh,  I  see,  that's  almost  as  good.  But  are 
you  in  love  with  him?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Fay,  in  her  pro- 
vokingly  slow  way.  "I  guess  I  am.  I  like  him 
well  enough;  anyhow,  I  don't  like  no  one  no 
better." 

"Don't  you  marry  any  man  you  aren't  in  love 
with,  or  at  least  think  you  are.  That's  my 
advice." 

"I  ain't  in  love  with  nobody,"  retorted  Fay,  in 
her  drawl. 

"Well,  you  will  be  some  day." 

"I'd  marry  him  quick  enough  if  I  could  be  his 
first  wife,"  she  declared. 

"You  stick  to  that,"  said  Alfie;  "the  last  may 
be  first,  you  know;  and  perhaps  you  will  be.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  trun  the  other  one  over 
if  you'd  wait  a  while."  He  puffed  a  cigarette 
he  was  lighting.  "Six  years  already: — he  must 
be  pretty  tired  of  her.  Do  they  have  divorces  in 
your  church?  But  I  advise  you  to  get  a  hand- 
some man.  Is  he — What's  his  name? — Is  he 
handsome?" 

"His  name  is  Wivvers,"  drawled  Fay. 

"Is  he  handsome?" 

"I  guess  he's  handsome  enough  for  me,"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  now,  Miss  Grady;  you  don't  appreciate 


196    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

yourself."  Fay  was  not  used  to  being  called 
Miss  Grady.  "I  have  seen  women  in  Denver, 
and  even  farther  away,  who  resorted  to  expedi- 
ents,"— he  gesticulated  with  his  cigarette  to 
denote  the  expedients, — "to  have  cheeks  as  red 
as  yours.     Is  he  as  handsome  as  I  am?" 

Fay  looked  at  him  as  though  she  had  not  yet 
thought  of  his  appearance. 

Stange  threw  out  his  chest  and  folded  his  arms 
at  "parade  rest." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  guess  he  ain't." 

"Well,  then,  you'd  better  not  marry  him  till 
I'm  gone,  anyhow." 

Fay  looked  at  him  again  and  said,  "I  don't  see 
what  difference  that  makes." 

Stange  laughed. 

"No,"  he  agreed;  "it  doesn't." 

Then  he  said  into  his  yellow  mustache,  "But, 
damn  it!    Maybe  it  will." 

While  they  were  talking  together  in  the  road, 
Dumain,  returning  from  the  priest's  house, 
passed  them  and  went  into  the  hotel,  without 
their  particularly  noticing  him.  The  three  pri- 
vates had  also  left  their  bench  as  the  declining 
sun  began  to  shine  into  their  eyes,  and  gone  in. 

Houghteling  looking  again  out  of  his  upper 
window,  called  shortly,  "Alfie,  come  up  here." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Stange,  starting  at  once. 
"Be  good.    I'll  see  you  again." 


STANGE'S   ADVICE  197 

Fay  stood  where  she  was  till  he  entered  the 
door.  Then  she  moved  on  to  do  her  original 
errand,  and  did  not  see  his  salute  to  her  from  the 
doorway. 


XXIV 

DIPLOMACY 

STANGE  sauntered  into  the  upper  room 
with  his  cigarette.  Houghteling  and  the 
Sergeant  were  sitting  by  a  table  on  which 
lay  a  large,  dirty  map  of  Colorado.  As  soon  as 
Stange  appeared,  Dumain  began,  "He  says  he 
must  send  word  to  them  to  give  up  the  affair." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  Captain. 

"Then  you  positively  do  not  intend  that  they 
shall  go  on  with  the  crucifixion?"  says  Dumain. 

"Oh,  we  must  have  a  crucifixion,"  said  Alfie. 
"I've  never  seen  one." 

"I  positively  do  not,"  answered  Houghteling. 
"I  thought  I  had  made  that  understood.  Isn't 
that  what  you  told  him?" 

"To  be  sure,"  Dumain  nodded. 

"We're  not  sent  here,  as  I  understand  my  or- 
ders, to  clean  out  this  village, — unless,  of  course, 
they're  stubborn  and  we  have  to, — but  to  stop 
the  crucifixion  this  year.  Next  year,  they  can 
send  again.  It's  a  very  small  village;  the  cus- 
tom will  probably  die  out  soon  along  with  the 
inhabitants.  Besides,  even  if  I  felt  at  liberty 
to  try  the  other  plan,  I  shouldn't.  Suppose 
there  was  some  slip.  How  should  we  feel? 
Think  of  this  whole  business!  They  lug  round 
heavy  crosses  for  weeks  first,  then  when  the  day 

198 


DIPLOMACY  199 

comes,  if  they're  not  dead,  they  nail  each  other 
up  on  them." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"It  must  be  disagreeable,"  Alfie  said,  "to  have 
nails  through  the  palms  of  your  hands." 

"Gentlemen,"  began  Dumain,  "I  don't  like  the 
idea  personally  any  better  than  you  do;  person- 
ally. But  the  sure  way  to  stop  it  forever  seems 
to  me  to  be  to  stop  it  in  flagrante  delictu.  Of 
course,  before  the  victim  is  dead,  if  possible." 

"Just  after  he's  tacked  up,"  glossed  Alfie. 

"Then  you  have  a  specific  crime.  That's  what 
the  Archbishop  thinks." 

"The  Archibishop  be  hanged!"  cried  Alfie.  "I 
want  it  to  go  on  more  than  he  does.  I've  never 
seen  a  crucifixion,  and  I'm  made  to  fight.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  let  it  go  on,  and  don't  you 
think  you  are.  Because  it  is  my  duty,"  he  added, 
thrusting  his  hand  into  his  bosom  like  Napoleon. 

"If  you  have  told  the  priest  our  plans,"  began 
Houghteling,  "I  don't  see  how  we  could  make 
them  go  on  now,  if  we  did  want  to." 

"I  might  easily  persuade  him  that  I  had  been 
mistaken  about  your  plans,"  said  Dumain.  "He's 
a  simple  old  soul,  half  sick.  He  felt  sure  at  first 
you  had  come  down  against  the  Mormons." 

Wezel,  coming  in  at  this  instant  with  a  kero- 
sene lamp,  exclaimed:  "Why,  the  Mormons  will 
help  us!" 

"So  you  said  before,  old  man,"  cried  Stange. 


200    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"I  did  not  wish  to  upset  him  too  much  all  at 
once,"  Dumain  pursued,  glancing  over  his  shoul- 
der at  Wezel  and  the  lamp;  "so  1  did  not  put 
the  meaning  of  your  presence  here  so  forcibly 
as  I,  of  course,  shall  when  I  go  back,  directly; 
now  that  I  know  your  plans  are  fixed." 

Houghteling  gazed  at  him  steadily  with  tight 
shut  mouth. 

"He  is  strongly  impressed,"  Dumain  went  on, 
crossing  his  long  thin  legs  and  turning  to  lean 
his  arm  on  his  chair  back,  "with  the  idea  how 
shocking  and  illegal  their  polygamous  marriages 
are." 

"That's  where  he's  just  right,"  asserted  Stange. 
"I'm  preventing  one  myself." 

"It  appears  they  are  still  common,"  Dumain 
went  on,  not  regarding  the  interruption.  "His 
own  servant-girl  is  being  enticed  into  one." 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Stange. 

"And  he  would  be  easily  convinced  that  you 
had  been  sent  to  help  the  Government  stamp 
out  this  surreptitious  practice." 

"You  ought  to  get  the  Saints  to  help  you," 
persisted  Wezel. 

"Why?  Are  they  so  opposed  to  the  Peni- 
tentes?"  Dumain  turned  so  quickly  upon  him 
that  he  jumped. 

"Opposed!  I  should  say  so,"  he  said,  blinking 
his  one  good  eye.  "They  hate  all  Catholics  like 
poison.    You  ought  to  get  them." 


DIPLOMACY  20I 

"We  don't  need  help,"  said  the  Captain  shortly. 

"How  many  men  are  there  at  San  Rafael?" 
Dumain  asked  complaisantly,  addressing  Wezel. 
"Not  more  than  twenty,  I'm  told." 

"Twenty?"  repeated  Wezel.  "I  guess  not. 
And  some  of  them  old  men  and  boys.  But  they'd 
fight  like  panthers." 

"Well,  what  can  they  do  against  twenty  sol- 
diers with  guns?"  demanded  Alfie;  "and  officers 
with  guns,  too,"  touching  a  holster  lying  on  the 
table. 

"I  only  thought  if  you  had  more,"  explained 
Wezel,  "you  wouldn't  kill  so  many.  I  suppose 
you  don't  want  to  kill  too  many." 

"I  wish, "  Houghteling  began,  impa- 
tiently. 

"No,  not  too  many,"  said  Alfie;  "they're  not 
Indians." 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  to  kill  a  few,"  said  Wezel; 
"they're  half-breeds." 

"I  wish  you  would  all  understand,"  cried 
Houghteling,  pounding  on  the  table,  "that  we 
won't  kill  one.  We  are  going  to  occupy  their 
town,  prevent  their  orgy,  and  go  home." 

He  stopped,  frowning.  The  Jesuit  turned 
down  the  darkly  smoking  lamp. 

Finally  he  said  placatingly:  "I  think  we  all  do 
understand,  Captain.  And  since  it  is  your  de- 
cision, I  at  least  shall  do  all  I  can  to  support  it." 

Houghteling  frowned  fixedly  at  him. 


202    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Still,  it  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Wezel's  idea 
about  the  Mormons  is  excellent.  Why  not  send 
them  word  why  you  are  here?  Isn't  it  policy  for 
an  armed  force  to  be  on  good  and  well-defined 
terms  with  all  parties  about?" 

"Nonsense!"  muttered  Houghteling. 

"I  hope  not,  sir,"  smiled  Dumain.  "I  can't 
see  the  harm  in  being  on  good  terms  with  every- 
one. And  it  might  be  awkward  if  they  got  the 
impression  you  had  been  sent  on  their  account. 
This  servant  is  one  of  their  sect,  and — news 
travels  so  mysteriously." 

He  stood  up. 

"Mormons  are  peaceable  cultivators,  when  let 
alone,"  said  Houghteling  grimly.  "I'll  trust  to 
their  not  making  any  counter  disturbance." 

"Naphtali  Wivvers  ain't  no  sech  peaceful  cul- 
tivator," wheezed  Wezel.  "He's  the  peaceful 
kind  that  carries  two  guns  in  their  belt.  I'd  a 
sight  rather  have  his  gang  on  my  side  than  on 
the  other." 

"I've  not  the  slightest  fear  of  it,"  snapped 
Houghteling,  nervously  fingering  on  the  table. 

Dumain  considered:  "Wivvers.  Why,  that's 
the  man  that  wants  to  marry  the  servant  girl." 

"You  bet  it  is,"  cried  Stange;  "and  marry  her 
he  shall,  and  in  return  he'll  be  our  ally.  I'll 
persuade  her." 

Houghteling  jumped  up  angrily  and  went  over 


DIPLOMACY  203 

to  the  window  where  he  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  others. 

"But  he  has  one  wife,"  the  Jesuit  objected; 
"we  should  be  helping  break  God's  laws  and  the 
Government's. " 

"Damn  the  Government!  Aren't  we  here 
fighting  for  the  Government?  We're  not  sent  to 
suppress  polygamy,  whatever  the  old  parson 
thought." 

"Alfie,"  said  Houghteling,  turning  towards 
them,  "I  hope  you  don't  think  you're  talking 
seriously.     It's  adultery." 

"Would  it  persuade  Wivvers?"  considered 
Dumain. 

Houghteling  gave  him  a  black  look  under  his 
eyebrows. 

"If  Naphtali  needed  persuadin'  to  worry  the 
Penitentes,  I  swear  that  would  do  it.  But  can 
Lieutenant  Stange  persuade  the  girl?  She's  a 
slow  creature,  but  mighty  sot." 

"Don't  you  worry,"  Alfie  reassured  him.  "She 
and  I  are  bosom  friends.  I  told  her  not  to  marry 
him  and  she  said  she  wouldn't.  Now  I'll  tell  her 
to,  and  I'm  blest  if  she  won't,  just  to  break  my 
heart.  As  to  it's  being  adultery,  I  say  it's  a  plain 
case  of  good,  old-fashioned  concubinage.  And 
there's  warrant  for  that  in  the  Bible,  isn't  there?" 
he  asked  Dumain. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  excuse  it,"  gravely  replied 
Dumain.     "My  only  warrant  is  that  good  may 


204    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

come  of  this  evil.  I  am  here  to  aid  you,  and 
that's  my  first  duty.  Besides,  the  Mormons  are 
not  Christians;  and  so  their  sin  is  at  least  not  a 
mock  of  religion  like  the  fanatical  celebration  at 
San  Rafael." 

"If  it's  as  serious  as  all  that,"  said  Stange, 
gravely,  "I  hope  you  don't  blame  the  poor  girl. 
She  won't  be  doing  anything  she  thinks  wrong." 

"I  have  scarcely  seen  the  girl  yet,"  replied 
Dumain.  He  stepped  to  the  door,  and  as  he 
opened  it,  said:  "I  shall  probably  see  you  down 
stairs  later, — at  supper,  I  hope." 

He  paused  a  moment.  Houghteling  said 
nothing. 

"Sure!"  Alfie  called  after  him  as  he  shut  the 
door. 

"Could  you  go  down  and  get  as  some  sort  of 
supper?"  Houghteling  then  asked  Wezel. 

As  soon  as  the  landlord  had  limped  from  the 
vilely  lighted  room,  Houghteling  came  from  the 
window  towards  the  Sergeant  and  Stange,  who 
leaned  back  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"I  mistrust  that  man  altogether,"  began  the 
Captain.  "Why  do  you  suppose  he  wants  us  to 
make  this  Mormon  treaty?" 

"I  guess  he  actually  thinks  we  need  some 
help,"  Alfie  surmised  pleasantly.  "Priests  don't 
know  anything  about " 

"I  feel  positive  he's  up  to  some  mischief,"  said 
Houghteling. 


DIPLOMACY  205 

"I  agree  with  you,  sir,"  said  the  Sergeant. 
"He's  too  smooth  spoken." 

'The  thing  to  do  now  is  to  send  to  the  Mor- 
mons and  make  the  arrangement." 

' What!"  cried  Alfie.  "Play  into  his  hand,  if 
he  has  got  some  little  game?" 

"What  is  his  game?  That's  the  trouble,"  com- 
plained the  Captain.  "He  seems  to  give  away 
all  his  schemes  and  yet  you  can't  get  on  to  them. 
The  only  thing  I  can  see  in  this  is  that  he  wants 
to  embroil  us  with  these  wild  Saints;  supposing 
him  a  hypocrite  and  really  trying  to  help  the 
San  Rafaelers  get  their  show  through.  It'd  be 
just  the  thing  for  them  to  have  us  with  the 
Mormons  on  our  hands  the  day  of  the  perform- 
ance. So  I'm  going  to  send  for  this  man 
Wivvers  and  put  it  to  him  plainly, — tell  him  we 
don't  expect  to  fight,  but  we'd  like  his  moral 
support  if  things  miscarry  and  force  us  to. 
That's  simple." 

"Simple  as  can  be,"  chimed  Alfie,  beginning 
to  whistle. 

"In  the  morning  I'll  send  a  message  up  to  the 
Penitente  priest,  too;  and  then  I  don't  see  how 
this  Jesuit  gentleman,  who  insists  on  helping, 
can  help  us  do  anything  we  don't  want  to  do." 

"Trun  down  for  old  Dumain,"  Alfie  remarked. 

"And  as  for  this  business  about  marrying  the 
girl  to  Wivvers,"  added  Houghteling,  "it's  fool- 
ishness, of  course." 


206    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Alfie.  "I  find 
it  rather  diverting  to  try  my  hand  at  match- 
making." 

"Better  drop  it,"  said  the  other  shortly,  leav- 
ing the  room. 

Alfie  got  up,  laughing,  and  followed  him. 


XXV 

A    SAINT   AMONG   SAINTS 

AT  THE  priest's  house,  supper  was  very 
/— \  early.  This  evening  it  took  Fay  Grady 
-*-  -*-  so  short  a  time  to  wash  the  dishes  that 
before  it  had  been  dark  many  minutes  she  had 
finished.  A  full  moon  was  already  doing  much 
to  make  it  undark  again  out  of  doors.  Fay,  who 
was  alone  in  the  kitchen,  took  off  her  apron,  and 
smoothing  her  shining  brown  hair  away  from 
the  part  with  both  hands,  she  advanced,  with 
a  good  deal  of  briskness  for  so  solid  a  young 
woman,  up  the  three  little  steps  and  into  the 
front  hall. 

At  the  closed  door  of  the  study,  where  Tecla 
had  carried  her  sick  brother's  supper  to  him, 
she  paused  to  listen.  All  was  silent  within.  Go- 
ing up  stairs  for  her  hat,  she  stopped  at  Sefiorita 
Tecla's  room  to  look  for  her.  Not  having  found 
her  there,  she  was  nearly  downstairs  again,  when 
the  study  door  opened  and  from  it  issued  her 
angular  mistress,  who  opened  her  thin  lips  to 
demand :  "Where  are  you  going  at  this  time  of 
night,  Fay  Grady?" 

"Home,"  said  Fay  with  a  note  of  forbearance; 
"you  said  I  could  when  I  got  everything  done." 

"I  grieve  to  hear  you  call  that  heathen  town 

207 


208    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

home,  when  you  have  a  good  Catholic  home 
here,"  responded  the  mistress.  "Is  your  dress 
finished?" 

"Yes'm,"  answered  Fay,  humble  but  firm. 

"And  the  dishes?" 

"The  dishes,  too,"  drawled  Fay  with  a  little 
sigh,  and  taking  a  slow  step  towards  the  open 
front  door. 

Tecla  looked  severely  at  her  as  she  moved  out. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  there?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Mr.  Davis  said  he'd  loan  me  his  buggy,  when 
I  was  down  to  the  store,"  said  the  girl  deliber- 
ately and  disinterestedly. 

"Well,  mind  you're  home  by "  she  con- 
sulted her  watch, — "seven, — "  she  calculated; 
"half-past  nine.  Mind,  that's  an  hour  each  way 
and  half  an  hour  to  stay.  Tell  your  aunt  to  come 
and  see  me;  and  you  tell  that  Wivvers  man," 
— she  raised  her  thin  voice  as  Fay  withdrew, — 
"that  he  is  a  shameless  creature,  and  never  to 
dare  again  to  come  near  this  house.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  long-drawn  answer  from  out 
of  doors. 

Fay  was  out  in  the  night. 

As  she  passed  the  hotel,  there  was  a  light  in 
an  upper  room,  where  she  could  catch  sight  of 
two  or  three  men.  She  walked  even  slower  than 
usual;  but  no  one  saw  her.    At  the  store,  across 


A    SAINT    AMONG   SAINTS  209 

the  railway  tracks,  she  got  the  promised  buggy. 
A  solitary  ten-mile  drive  across  the  prairie  land, 
which  was  all  one  dull,  tawny,  sleepy  color  under 
the  monotonous  moonlight,  brought  her  to  the 
Mormon  settlement.  As  she  neared  the  hamlet 
of  Manassa,  silent  fields  of  alfalfa  and  wheat 
seemed  suddenly  to  spring  up;  and  the  narrow 
irrigating  ditches  running  between  them  would 
light  up  and  glimmer  in  the  moonlight,  and  then 
seem  to  go  out  again,  as  she  drove  past. 

Finally  came  a  wide  street  bounded  by  square 
frame  houses,  unpainted  and  looking  dead  and 
dreary  in  the  half-light.  Before  one  of  these  she 
drew  up  her  horse  with  a  "whoa,"  and  having 
plumped  a  round  iron  weight  on  a  strap  down 
near  his  feet,  she  went  up  on  the  porch  and 
opened  the  door. 

It  led  into  an  ugly  but  fairly  neat  sitting-room, 
with  a  dingy  parlor-organ  in  one  corner.  A 
weary-looking  woman  in  a  gray-figured  calico 
wrapper  and  holding  a  baby,  rocked  vigorously 
in  one  chair;  and  in  another  a  very  large,  bearded 
man  sat  smoking  a  strong  pipe  and  reading  a 
Bible.     Neither  got  up. 

"Good  evening  Fay,"  said  the  woman  in  a 
gentle,  tired  voice,  stopping  her  rocking  for  a 
moment. 

"Good  evenin',  Sarah,"  replied  Fay,  coughing 
a  little  with  the  smoke.  "How-de-do,  Mr. 
Wivvers." 


210    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Wivvers  had  already  cried,  "Hello,  Fay!"  in 
a  loud,  rough  voice,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her. 

Taking  his  pipe  out,  he  motioned  with  his 
head  peremptorily  to  his  wife,  who  quietly  rose. 
Going  over  to  the  organ  bench,  she  sat  down 
and  commenced  patting  the  baby  on  its  back 
with  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Wivvers  to  Fay. 

"I  can't  stay  long,"  said  Fay,  sitting  and 
smoothing  down  her  shiny  green  skirt  with  her 
two  hands. 

"Why  not,  can't  you?"  asked  Wivvers  in  his 
coarse  voice. 

"I've  got  to  go  home,  too,  to  see  my  sister," 
Fay  explained  in  her  drawl;  "and  she  told  me  to 
get  back  there  again  at  half-past  nine." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  man,  puffing  at  his 
pipe.  He  laid  the  Bible  down  on  the  floor  beside 
him.  "Well,  I  hope,"  he  said,  "that  afore  long 
you'll  be  stayin'  in  this  house  all  the  time." 

His  wife,  shaking  the  baby  about,  and  now 
and  then  laying  her  thin  cheek  against  its  downy 
hair,  seemed  to  pay  scant  attention  to  the  other 
two. 

"I  don't  know,"  Fay  said  calmly,  "I  ain't  de- 
cided yet." 

"Well,  I  ain't  hurryin'  you,"  said  the  man; 
"but  it  'pears  to  me  you've  had  loads  of  time  to 
decide  by  now.  You  won't  do  no  better,  I  can 
tell  you  that.    Not  in  the  Valley.    I'm  the  rich- 


A    SAINT   AMONG    SAINTS  211 

est  man  hereabouts.  Sarah'd  like  it,  too."  He 
took  his  leg  from  over  the  arm  of  his  chair  to 
turn  half-way  towards  his  wife.  "You'd  like  to 
have  Fay  here  in  the  house,  wouldn't  you, 
Sarah?" 

Sarah  looked  up  from  the  baby  with  tired  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  no  use  killin'  yourself  hurry- 
in',"  remarked  Fay.  "I'm  young  yet.  But  I 
reckon  I  will  decide  before  long." 

"The  sooner,  the  better,"  said  Wivvers.  "I 
ain't  so  awful  young  no  more  myself;  and  it 
seems  funny  to  me  I've  got  this  old  without 
being  joined  to  only  one  woman.  It's  savin'  a 
good  deal  for  Sarah." 

It  was  Sarah  who  broke  the  pause  that  fol- 
lowed by  asking,  but  as  if  she  had  very  little 
interest  in  the  answer:  "How  did  you  come 
over?" 

Her  guest  answered  promptly  enough:  "I 
drove,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Davis  loaned  me  his 
buggy." 

Then  there  was  another  pause.  It  caused  no 
apparent  embarrassment  to  any  of  the  three;  but 
was  finally  ended  by  Fay,  who,  all  the  time  rock- 
ing herself  with  much  deliberation,  announced 
dispassionately:   "There's  soldiers  in  Antonito." 

"Soldiers!"  repeated  Wivvers,  pricking  up  his 
ears.    "What  fer?    When  did  they  come?" 


212    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"They  come  this  afternoon  on  the  train,"  said 
Fay.    "I  don't  know  what  they  come  for." 

"Blamed  if  I  do!"  he  said.  "We  don't  have 
no  strikes  down  here." 

"I  don't  know,"  repeated  Fay,  as  if  to  clear 
herself  from  any  imputation. 

"Where  are  they  stayin'?"  asked  Sarah,  who 
had  stopped  shaking  about  the  baby,  and  now 
eyed  her  husband  anxiously. 

"At  Wezel's." 

"How  many?"  Wivvers  demanded. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Fay,  with  a  shade  of 
impatience.  "I  ain't  counted  'em.  I  didn't  see 
but  four  or  five;  but  I  reckon  there's  more." 

"They  ain't  here  for  no  good,  I'll  bet,"  said 
Wivvers.  "Some  trouble  on  hand  for  some  one." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Fay  again  in  a  bored 
tone,  and  getting  up.  "Well,  good-night,  Sarah; 
good-night,  Mr.  Wivvers;  good-night,  baby." 

"Come  and  see  his  tooth,"  tempted  the  moth- 
er, standing  up. 

"You  might  stay  a  little  while,"  growled 
Wivvers,  also  getting  up.  "Or  tell  me  more 
about  them  soldiers.  I  got  a  mind  to  go  over 
with  you  and  see.  'Spose  Davis'd  let  me  have 
the  buggy  to  come  back?" 

"No,"  said  Fay.  "I  don't.  I  know  he  would- 
n't." 

"My  horse  is  kinder  tired,"  considered  Wiv- 
vers. 


A   SAINT   AMONG   SAINTS  213 

"Oh,  don't  go,  Naphtali,"  his  wife  pleaded. 
"Wait  till  mornin\" 

"Well,  good-night,"  said  Fay  again;  and  went 
out. 


XXVI 

DANGEROUS  ADVICE 

WHEN  Houghteling,  Stange,  and  the 
Sergeant  went  downstairs  after  hav- 
ing finished  their  council  as  to  the 
Mormons,  they  found  Dumain  sitting  alone  in 
the  bar  or  dining-room,  writing.  There  was  a 
tremendous  smell  of  frying  from  a  room  beyond, 
and  Wezel  limped  bustlingly  in  and  out  with 
piles  of  plates  and  handfuls  of  rattling  forks  and 
knives. 

Dumain,  pushing  his  papers  together  as  they 
came  in,  looked  up  expectantly  and  pleasantly. 

"We  have  decided  to  adopt  your  plan  and 
write  to  the  Mormons,"  said  Houghteling. 

"Good!"  cried  Dumain,  rising.  "I  was  just 
writing  to  my  superior,  but  I'll  add  that  satis- 
factory piece  of  news,"  and  he  bent  over  to 
scribble  a  few  more  words. 

With  a  half-sneer  Houghteling  turned  away 
and  went  into  the  kitchen.  Stange  was  to  write 
the  letter  for  him. 

Dumain,  standing  by  the  table  where  Stange 
leaned  over  the  paper,  biting  his  yellow  mus- 
tache, looked  curiously  at  him,  and  said:  "Do 
you  always  write  with  your  left " 

"Bless  you,  no.    I  can  do  quite  as  well  with 

214 


DANGEROUS  ADVICE  215 

my  right;  result  of  being  rapped  over  the 
knuckles  when  I  didn't.  But  it  looks  different. 
See!"  He  began  to  copy  his  letter  with  his 
other  hand.    "It's  convenient  sometimes." 

When  Houghteling  came  hurrying  back,. 
Stange  pushed  aside  the  papers  to  give  him  a 
place  to  sign.  Dumain  craftily  slipped  the  copy 
among  his  own  papers  as  he  gathered  them  up 
off  the  table. 

"They'll  think  you're  dead  swell,"  laughed 
Stange  to  his  Captain,  "having  a  secretary;  and 
if  they  can  read,  they'll  probably  notice  how 
much  better  the  secretary  writes." 

The  delegation, — consisting  of  Wezel  as  guide, 
the  Sergeant,  and  two  men, — rode  off  on  two 
horses  owned  by  Wezel,  and  two  more  hired  by 
him  in  the  village. 

It  was  about  an  hour  after  they  had  gone  that 
Fay  Grady,  having  left  her  borrowed  buggy  at 
its  owner's,  came  walking  by  the  hotel,  where 
Houghteling,  Stange,  and  Dumain  were  sitting 
on  the  bench  by  the  door,  all  smoking.  Most  of 
the  soldiers  were  talking  noisily  inside  the  house. 
The  guard  was  to  be  seen  coming  round  the  cor* 
ner  in  the  moonlight.    The  night  was  very  warm. 

After  the  girl  had  passed,  Alfie  Stange,  stand- 
ing up  and  stretching,  in  the  shadow  where  they 
were,  said,  gaping,  "I'm  going  for  a  little  stroll." 

"The  Lord  go  with  you,"  said  Houghteling. 


ai6    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

*1  can't  see  why  any  one  wants  to  exercise  this 
hot  night.,, 

"I  thought  I  saw  my  lady-friend,"  Alfie  an- 
swered back  from  the  road.  "I  must  tell  her 
about  our  matrimonial  plans  for  her." 

"Don't  you  be  rash,  young  man,"  Houghtel- 
ing  called  after  him. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  over  to  Emanuele  again," 
announced  Dumain,  rising.  "I  believe  he  wants 
me  to  do  some  work  for  him  to-morrow.  He 
is  so  sick,  you  know,  and  I  will  get  him  to  send 
over  his  maid  then  with  a  message." 

Alfie,  hearing  him  coming,  walked  faster. 
When  he  reached  the  priest's  house,  he  entered 
the  garden  and  lurked  in  the  shadow  of  some 
trees  near  the  door,  till  Dumain  came  in  and 
knocked  as  before.  As  soon  as  Stange  was 
aware  that  the  person  who  came  to  answer  was 
not  Fay,  he  hurried  to  the  side  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  fence  as  high  as  his  head.  He  pulled 
himself  up  and  vaulted  over.  With  an  instinc- 
tive quickness  he  ran  directly  to  the  kitchen  win- 
dow, which  was  open. 

"Fay,"  he  called  in  a  stage  whisper. 

Fay  was  sitting  languid  where  Senorita  Tecla 
had  left  her  an  instant  before,  when  she  broke  off 
a  catechism  about  her  visit  to  go  to  the  front 
<loor.  She  started  a  little  at  the  sound  and 
turned  towards  him. 


DANGEROUS  ADVICE  21/ 

"Come  out,"  he  said,  and  dodged  back  as  the 
inside  door  opened. 

Waiting  in  the  dark,  he  heard  Tecla  say:  "Yes, 
it  was  him.  But  he  isn't  going  to  stay  to-night. 
Where  are  you  going?" 

"Out  to  the  well,"  Fay  answered  in  her  slow 
voice. 

"Why  couldn't  you  get  a  drink  when  you  came 
in?  You  were  nearly  late,  anyway.  You'd  bet- 
ter take  a  pitcher,"  in  Tecla's  sharp  tones. 

"I  reckon  there's  a  dipper  at  the  well,"  drawled 
Fay. 

Then  he  heard  the  door  open  and  saw  Fay- 
come  out  in  the  broad  ray  of  light.  Fay  was 
not  pretty;  but  her  plumpness  and  her  fresh 
color  looked  well  in  the  half-darkness  of  moon- 
light. Stange  waited  until  they  were  a  few  yards 
from  the  house,  and  then  touching  her  gently 
on  the  arm,  said  in  a  low  tone:  "You  remember 
I  told  you  this  afternoon  not  to  marry  Wivvers; 
well,  now  I  want  you  to." 

"Why?"   asked  Fay  softly. 

"Why?  I  don't  know.  I  think  he's  a  good 
sort  of  chap.  Never  mind  why.  Say  you  will 
because  I  want  you  to.    Won't  you?" 

They  had  come  to  the  artesian  well,  whose 
white  water  seemed  to  foam  up  out  of  the  black 
ground;  they  could  hear  it  gurgling  away 
through  a  trough.  Fay  stooped  and  got  the 
dipper  from  somewhere;   as  she  rose  she  said* 


218    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"I  ain't  sure.  I  ain't  decided  yet  whether  I  want 
to  be  second  wife." 

Then  she  drank. 

Stange  jerked  one  fist  in  quick  impatience. 

But  gently  enough  he  said,  "We  want  you  to. 
I  want  you  to.    Won't  you?" 

Fay  was  offering  him  the  refilled  dipper. 

"We  are  going "  he  began,  making  a  ges- 
ture to  push  it  away. 

The  water  spilled  out  with  a  swish  over  Fay's 
skirt,  and  before  he  had  time  to  finish  his  sen- 
tence, he  heard  Tecla's  voice  calling  through 
the  darkness,  "Fay  Grady!    Fay  Grady!" 

"All  right!"  called  Fay  by  his  side. 

He  could  see  a  figure,  black  in  the  open  door- 
way; but  he  knew  she  couldn't  see  them. 

"Come  to  the  hotel  at  seven  in  the  morning, 
will  you?" 

Fay  nodded. 

As  she  started  back  to  the  house,  with  a  sud- 
den impulse  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her. 

"Don't,"  she  said,  without  struggling. 

"Always  two,"  he  breathed,  kissing  her  again; 
"to  make  sure  of  more." 

Then  he  let  her  go. 

"Come  out  again  tonight,  will  you?"  he  asked. 

"Why?" 

"I  don't  know.    But  come.    Won't  you,  Fay?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  will,"  she  said  deliberately. 


DANGEROUS  ADVICE  219 

"Can't  you  get  out  without  her  knowing  it?" 

"I  guess  I  could;   through  the  church." 

"Well,  won't  you?" 

Just  then  Tecla  called  again,  "Fay  Grady,  are 
you  coming?" 

"I  don't  see  no  reason  to  come  out,"  said  Fay 
to  Stange,  and  began  to  run  ponderously  to  the 
house. 

Stange  walked  slowly  in  the  same  direction,  till 
he  saw  the  door  close  and  shut  in  the  light.  Then 
he  stopped  still.  He  snapped  his  fingers  angrily. 
"Damn  it!"   he  said  fiercely. 

When  Fay  got  inside  the  dimly  lighted  kit- 
chen, she  explained,  stopping  quite  short,  "I 
got  my  dress  wet  out  there." 

"I  thought  you  were  lost,  you  were  so  slow. 
You  must  be  careful."  Tecla  had  a  worried  look 
in  her  sharp  eyes.  "Did  you  know  there  were 
soldiers  in  town?" 

Fay  giggled  a  very  little. 

"Did  you  know  it?"  demanded  Tecla  sharply. 

"I  guess  they  won't  hurt  me,"  said  Fay  with 
a  grave  face. 

"Hurt  you!"  Tecla  repeated.  "Indeed  you 
shan't  give  them  a  chance.  I  don't  want  you  to 
leave  the  place  again  while  they're  here,  without 
my  permission.     Do  you  understand?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

A  slow,  tremulous  voice  was  heard  calling 
#ay. 


220    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Run  to  the  Father,"  directed  the  Senorita. 

Fay  slowly  proceeded  into  the  Father's  large 
study.  He  was  alone,  but  was  just  reseating  him- 
self. 

"You  are  to  go  to  the  hotel  to-morrow  at 
seven,"  he  said,  coughing. 

"Yes,"  said  Fay  promptly.    "I  know." 

"To  see  if  there  is  any  message  for  me  from 
Mr.  Dumain." 

"Is  that  his  name?"  asked  Fay. 

"Yes,  the  gentleman  you  let  in  this  afternoon." 
He  began  to  cough  again. 

Stange,  after  Fay  had  left  him,  soon  reached 
the  road  again,  where  he  encountered  Dumain, 
also  returning  to  the  hotel. 

"I've  just  been  consulting  Miss  Grady,"  began 
Stange  indefinitely  but  gaily.  "I  can't  see  that 
it  hurts,  although  Dan  is  so  opposed  to  it." 

"What  does  she  say?"  asked  Dumain  guard- 
edly. 

"Oh,  I  told  her  to  come  to  the  hotel  in  the 
morning,"  said  Alfie.  "From  what  Fve  heard 
of  Wivvers,  I  rather  misdoubt  he  may  be  hard 
to  deal  with;  and  I  should  think  it  would  make 
it  easier  if  he  finds  his  sweetheart  on  our  side." 

"I  should  think  it  might,"  returned  Dumain, 
dry  and  non-committal. 

When  the  embassy  to  Manassa  returned  there 


DANGEROUS  ADVICE  221 

was  no  one  to  be  seen  at  the  hotel,  except  the 
guard  on  post  and  the  Corporal  of  the  guard, 
who  looked  out  of  the  door,  holding  a  lantern, 
as  they  were  challenged.  While  they  were  being 
recognized,  Houghteling,  putting  his  head  out  of 
a  second-story  window,  asked  in  a  lowered 
voice,  "Is  he  coming  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  all  right,"  answered  the  Sergeant. 
"He  was  almost  on  the  point  of  coming  on  his 
own  hook." 

"Naturally,"  began  Wezel. 

"Go  to  bed,  all  of  you,"  interrupted  the  voice 
from  above,  and  the  head  went  inside. 

That  night  before  going  to  bed,  Dumain  had 
written  a  report  to  his  superiors,  from  which  the 
following  is  an  extract : 

"The  parish  priest  here,  though  I  have  almost 
persuaded  him  the  soldiers  have  no  intention 
against  San  Rafael,  is  yet,  in  his  hypochondria, 
so  cautious  that  I  fear  he  may  at  any  time  send 
the  Penitentes  a  warning  to  give  up  the  cere- 
mony. To  prevent  this  and  to  insure  carrying 
out  our  plan  of  giving  them  a  severe  and  memor- 
able punishment,  I  shall  resort  to  extreme  meas- 
ures if  I  must.  Fortunately,  he  is  too  sick  to  go 
to  them  himself.  I  am  also  having  some  difficulty 
in  arranging,  against  their  wills,  the  plans  of 
the  soldiers.  Their  Captain  is  a  very  suspicious, 
stubborn  young  man;    but  I  think  I  have  man- 


222    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

aged  to  keep  him  interested  and  occupied  here 
for  a  day  or  two,  so  that  he  will  not  arrive  at 
S.  R.  before  time.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he 
mistrusts  me;  but  the  ruses  I  am  thereby  forced 
to,  serve  to  keep  my  mind  employed  and  away 
from  the  wretched  creatures  we  are  forced  for 
their  good  to  chastise.  I  thank  God  that,  though 
I  use  the  soldiers  to  scourge  them  with,  I  myself 
need  take  no  active  physical  part  in  the  punish- 
ment. It  is  enough  to  furnish  brains  for  all  the 
short-sighted  people  blindly  made  to  carry  out 
my  purposes,  which  they  cannot  see  now  are 
their  own  as  well.'' 


XXVII 

A  THREAT  AND  A   PLEA 

SEVERAL  weeks  had  passed  since  Paez  had 
gone  forth  under  his  cross.  Sometimes  he 
was  seen  near  the  settlement, — a  motion- 
less or  at  least  very  slowly  moving  dark  object. 
The  priest  went  out  quietly  every  morning  to 
feed  him;  but  as  yet  no  one  else  had  spoken  to 
him  or  even  inquired  about  him. 

Life  in  San  Rafael  dragged  as  evenly  as  ever. 
Everyone  fasted;  and  it  rained  every  afternoon. 
It  was  suffocatingly,  unendurably  hot.  Even 
the  Penitentes,  who  are  used  to  heat,  stayed 
generally  in  the  shade  at  midday. 

Dolores  was  still  with  Panchita.  Sometimes 
she  would  sew  in  the  low  dark  room,  where  it 
was  stuffy,  but  not  comparatively  hot;  oftener 
she  would  sit  in  the  hotter  but  airier  porch,  where 
Pasco  stirred  his  tubs.  He  didn't  stir  very  vig- 
orously, for  he  had  spells  of  merely  holding  the 
stick  upright  in  the  middle  of  his  dye-stuff  to 
gaze  abstractedly  out  over  the  steaming  Valley 
before  him  at  the  blue  mirage  and  the  hills. 
When  Dolores  was  there  he  stared  mostly  at  her; 
but  as  she  very  seldom  spoke  to  him,  he  spoke 
as  little  to  her.  Sometimes  she  would  look  up 
to  smile  at  him  over  her  stint.    Often  after  thus 

223 


224    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

smiling,  she  would  sigh  discontentedly;  or  would 
purse  her  lips  and  shake  her  hair  back  from  her 
face,  and  move  nervously  the  bare  foot  she  was 
not  sitting  on. 

One  evening  they  were  sitting  thus  in  the 
porch,  Dolores  with  her  hands  placidly  folded 
over  her  sewing,  and  her  head  against  the  wall, 
Pasco  nodding  above  his  dye-tub,  gradually  let- 
ting the  stick  slip  from  his  hands.  The  quivering 
heat  which  veils  the  San  Luis  Valley  all  day, 
faded  out  as  the  twilight  slowly  gathered;  and 
the  far-away  mountains  moved  nearer  as  they 
became  more  clear-cut  in  their  outlines  and  more 
purple  on  their  slopes.  The  huge  sturdy  mass  of 
Blanca,  dominating  the  others,  grew  soft  and 
smoky,  as  the  blue  lake  of  mirage  which  bathes 
his  foot  all  the  hot  day,  vapored  away  into  dark- 
ness. One  star  overhead  pricked  through  the 
sombering  sky,  and  gradually  shone  forth  into 
brave  yellowness. 

As  Dolores  looked,  a  pale  thin  halo  of  grayish 
light  began  to  suffuse  the  sky  over  one  end  of 
the  long  crest  of  Blanca.  Rather  fast  this 
warmed  and  deepened  and  grew  in  intensity,  till 
it  became  such  a  radiant  soft  brightness  that  any 
one  might  know  there  was  something  there  be- 
hind, and  all  the  dusky  silent  Valley  waited  in 
suspense  for  what  was  going  to  happen.  Sud- 
denly a  thin  sliver  of  gold  appeared;  and  then 
came  the  ever  fresh  miracle  of  the  moon  push- 


A  THREAT  AND  A   PLEA  225 

ing  herself  up  over  the  rim  of  the  world  into  the 
heavens;  till  at  last  she  slipped  up  clear  of  the 
hills  and  hung  there,  pausing  a  moment, — a 
round,  full,  red,  sultry,  swollen  moon,  with  her 
foolish  face  indistinct  and  ghastly. 

After  this  the  light  quickly  changed.  Twilight 
with  its  shades  became  moonlight  with  its  shad- 
ows. Dolores  got  up;  and  as  she  moved,  Pasco 
waked  with  a  start.  Though  he  absorbedly 
watched  her  leave  the  porch,  he  made  no  mo- 
tion. 

Out  there  in  the  open  it  was  as  close  and  al- 
most as  warm  as  by  day.  The  stored-up  heat  rose 
from  the  warm  ground,  no  longer  steaming  to 
the  eye,  but  quite  perceptible  to  the  feeling.  But 
by  midnight  it  would  be  chilly. 

A  dark  figure  moving  through  the  oblique 
moonlight,  proved  to  be,  as  Dolores  scrutinized 
it,  Fanita,  going  apparently  from  her  own  house 
to  that  of  Oestocris.  She  was  coming  directly 
towards  Dolores.  Though  she  had  always 
avoided  this  girl  painfully,  Dolores  now  halted, 
and  with  one  hand  on  her  hip,  waited  in  silence 
for  her.  The  other  approached  evenly;  till  all 
at  once,  seeing  who  it  was  that  stood  in  wait  for 
her,  she  hesitated.  Then  she  started  on  again 
and  came  along  in  the  thin  wavering  light.  She 
changed  her  course  the  least  point,  however;  and 
Dolores,  making  a  step  or  two  forward,  antici- 
pated her. 


226    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"Wait  a  minute,  girl,"  Dolores  said;  "I  want 
to  speak  to  you.  I  never  have  before  this,  and 
I  think  I  won't  again;  but  I  do  now." 

Fanita  drew  away  to  one  side,  and  hurried  on. 
But  Dolores  put  forth  one  hand  to  seize  her 
bare  arm,  and  held  her. 

"Wait,  won't  you,  when  I  speak  to  you?  You 
are  not  very  obliging, — Coward!  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  say  much;  just  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you." 

"Let  me  go,"  commanded  Fanita,  in  a  hoarse 
tone,  trying  to  pull  away. 

Dolores  holding  her  tight,  pulled  narder,  jerk- 
ing the  other  girl  toward  her.  "You'll  wait, 
while  I  tell  you  to,"  she  said  coldly. 

Fanita  was  trembling. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  help  being  a  Penitente," 
Dolores  began  again,  keeping  her  voice  low; 
"God  made  you  one.  But  some  of  the  Peni- 
tentes  are  decent  people, — Panchita  is,  and 
Pasco,  and  Paez.  But  you  have  no  heart, — you 
and  that  old  woman, — you  are  like  coyotes,  you 
two,  sneaking  around  in  the  dark  to  kill  people. 
Only  you  are  worse, — you  pretend  you  think 
God  likes  it.  She  wants  her  own  son  to  be  cruci- 
fied, and  you  are  worse  than  she  is.  It's  just 
because  you  are  jealous  of  me." 

Fanita,  who  was  regaining  her  composure, 
made  an  inarticulate  sound  of  disdain. 

"You  know  it  is,"  pursued  Dolores  hotly,  "you 


A  THREAT  AND   A   PLEA  22J 

tried  to  make  my  old  lover  take  me  away,  so 
that  I  could  not  have  Paez.  You'd  rather  have 
him  die  than  me  to  have  him;  because  he  never 
would  love  you,< — he'd  rather  die  himself  than 
have  you." 

"It's  a  lie,"  said  Fanita  between  her  teeth. 

"It's  not  a  lie;"  Dolores  raised  her  voice. 

"He  wanted  to  be  the  Christ,  for  the  love  of 
God.    All  the  men  want  to." 

"He  did  not  want  to,"  Dolores  cried  bitterly. 
"Do  you  think  God  dealt  out  those  cards?  No, 
I  tell  you,  He  didn't.  It's  gambling, — it's  low- 
down  dirty  gambling." 

"I  prayed  to  the  Saints, — the  Saints  did  it," 
insisted  Fanita. 

Dolores  laughed  in  wrath.  "The  Saints  listen 
to  you!" 

"They  did  listen  to  me.  I  told  him  beforehand 
— you  see!  They  did  choose  him, — I  asked 
them  to." 

"Then  it's  your  fault,"  cried  Dolores  trembling, 
"you  heartless  Indian!  You — you  devil!  I  pray 
God  to  punish  you — I  pray  God — "  she  let  go  of 
Fanita's  arms  and  clasped  her  hands  as  in  prayer. 

There  was  silence  for  an  instant.  Then  Fanita 
burst  out  mockingly:  "You  are  the  one  who's 
jealous, — jealous  of  God.  He  belongs  to  Him 
now.    You'll  never  get  him." 

Dolores  turned  on  her  in  a  fury.  "I  will  get 
him!    I'll  get  him  from  you  and  that  old  panther, 


228    THE   PENITENT         OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

— or;"  Fanita,  shrinking  again,  drew  away;  "or 
you'll  be  sorry  for  it,"  concluded  Dolores  almost 
calmly. 

A  shrill  voice  rang  out  from  one  of  the  dark 
houses  on  the  edge  of  the  moonlight,  "Fanita!" 

The  girl  with  alacrity  turned  and  ran  from 
Dolores. 

Left  alone,  Dolores  stood  still,  panting  and 
quivering.  She  made  one  or  two  moves  in  this 
direction  and  that,  till  finally,  becoming  calmer, 
she  walked  straight  over  to  the  road  and  studied 
it,  up  and  down.  As  usual  there  was  no  living 
thing  on  its  dusty  stretches.  Crossing  to  the 
other  side,  she  searched  the  waste  of  fields  as  well 
as  she  could  under  the  deceptive  distances  of  the 
moonshine.  Then  she  slowly  went  down  the  road 
as  far  as  the  river;  there  she  crossed  the  little 
grass-plot  and  peered  about  through  the  trees. 
At  times  she  paused  to  hearken;  but  there  was 
no  other  sound  than  the  welling  of  the  river  and 
what  rustling  of  the  leaves  she  herself  occasioned 
in  pushing  through. 

When  she  left  the  copse  she  skirted  up  be- 
hind the  houses  of  the  hamlet, — stopping  to  ex- 
plore the  shadowy  spaces  between.  But  the  only 
person  she  saw  was  a  little  girl,  who  toiled  past 
unconsciously  near  her  with  a  heavy  water- 
bucket.  After  thus  prowling  along  until  she 
reached  the  end  of  the  settlement,  she  struck 
off  into  the  uplying  country  towards  New  Mex- 


A  THREAT  AND  A   PLEA  229 

ico,  which  is  only  a  mile  or  two  away.  Here 
grow  much  low  sage-bush  and  cactus;  and  in 
order  not  to  run  thorns  into  her  bare  feet,  she 
was  fain  to  pick  her  way  nicely  among  the  crowd 
of  black  shadows  that  spotted  the  ground. 

As  she  went  thus  cautiously  up  under  the 
vague  moonlight,  she  seemed  to  be  aware,  some- 
where on  the  deceptive  face  of  the  rolling  prairie, 
of  some  dark  thing  moving.  She  doubled  her 
pace.  It  was  yet  a  long  monotonous  way  be- 
fore she  was  sure.  But  then,  abruptly,  the  thing 
resolved  itself  and  stood  out  bold  in  the  weird 
light  as  the  dragging  form  of  Paez  with  his  cross. 

Dolores  walked  slowly  to  him.  Bent  down 
under  his  burden,  though  he  crouched  facing 
her,  yet  he  gave  no  sign  of  seeing  her,  till  she 
not  only  stood  before  him,  but  said,  with  a  tre- 
mor in  her  voice:  "Paez,  I  have  came  out  here 
to  see  you." 

She  marked  in  the  gray  moonlight  how  hollow 
and  black  his  eyes  were. 

"Lola!"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice,  so  rough 
and  weak  that  he  made  another  attempt  and 
again  said,  "Lola!" 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  girl  tenderly;  "here!" 
and  she  stepped  to  a  spot  free  from  brush.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

Paez  crawled  after  her.  He  sank  down  into  a 
strange,  cramped  posture,  his  body  half  under 
the  gTeat  cross,  which  rested  by  one  arm  on  the 


230  THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

ground,  and  with  one  of  his  own  arms  twisted 
back  over  it. 

Dolores  looked  at  him  compassionately. 

"Is  that  the  best  way  you  can  sit?"  she  asked. 

For  answer  he  wriggled  about,  and  in  trying 
to  get  more  comfortable  and  to  keep  the  heavy 
cross  from  crushing  him  down,  he  caused  it  to 
keel  over  backwards,  jerking  him  roughly  with  it, 
so  that  he  lay  flat  upon  it,  his  face  up  to  the  sky. 

Dolores  gave  a  little  cry  as  he  rolled  over. 

"Oh!  are  you  hurt?"  she  kneeled  and  leaned 
over  him. 

"No,"  he  answered  in  a  weak  dry  voice;  "it's 
best  this  way.  I  generally  lie  this  way.  Only," 
he  added,  moving  his  head,  "it's  hard  and  it  hurts 
me. 

The  girl  gently  lifted  his  head,  and  gathering 
as  much  of  his  long  matted  hair  as  she  could, 
pushed  it  under  so  as  to  form  a  cushion. 

"There,  is  that  better?"  she  asked,  smoothing 
his  hair  back  from  his  eyes  and  letting  her 
moist  palm  lie  a  moment  on  his  hot  dry  fore- 
head. 

Paez  gave  a  sigh  of  comfort. 

"Yes,"  he  said  huskily;  and  after  clearing  his 
throat;  "talk  to  me  now." 

"I'm  going  away,  dear,"  said  Dolores  all  at 
once,  with  a  break  in  her  voice. 

"No,  no,  Lola,"  he  answered  calmly  but  firmly. 
"Don't  go." 


A  THREAT  AND  A  PLEA  231 

"Come  with  me,"  she  besought,  taking  up  his 
hand,  which  lay  near  hers  on  the  sand.  "Come 
with  me,  Paez.  Why  do  I  want  to  stay  here 
now,  with  you  like  this?  Come!  You  have 
fever,"  she  said,  squeezing  his  hot  hand,  and  then 
beginning  to  stroke  it.  "I  don't  want  them  to 
kill  you.     Don't  let  them." 

For  a  while  he  said  nothing. 

Then  after  a  husky  effort,  and  once  more  clear- 
ing his  throat,  he  answered:  "No,  I  can't  go 
now." 

"Yes,"  implored  the  girl. 

He  turned  his  head  till  it  lay  on  the  side,  look- 
ing at  her. 

"I  love  you,"  she  cried  passionately. 

Again  a  pause;  and  again  he  murmured:  "No, 
no,  Lola.    I  can't  go  now." 

"They'll  kill  you,"  repeated  Dolores. 

"Then  I  shall  get  rid  of  all  this  pain;"  his 
voice  was  smoother. 

"So  you  will  if  you  come  with  me,"  said  Do- 
lores, despairingly. 

He  only  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side  on 
the  cross. 

"No,  it's  too  late,"  he  said. 

Dolores  sighed;  nearly  a  groan. 

For  some  time  she  sat  gazing  at  him,  her 
bosom  rising  with  her  heavy  breathing. 

At  last  she  said:  "You  were  afraid  before." 


232    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

"I  know,"  answered  Paez;  "but  that  was  be- 
fore/' 

"Before  what?"  she  asked  curiously. 

In  the  moonlight  she  could  see  a  smile  spread 
over  his  face.  Then,  as  he  spoke,  she  noticed 
how  white  his  teeth  looked.  "Before  I  saw 
Him,"  he  answered  contentedly. 

"Saw  who?"  asked  Dolores,  glancing  over 
her  shoulder. 

"The  Infant  Jesus,"  he  responded  tenderly. 
"He  has  been  coming  to  me  out  here  at  night, 
when  everything  is  still,  carrying  His  own  little 
cross.  Only  He  is  all  in  white  and  blue.  And 
He  says  things  to  me." 

"What  does  He  say?"  Dolores  asked,  sighing 
deeply. 

"All  sorts  of  things,"  Paez  went  on  glibly;  and 
she  could  see  that  his  sunken  eyes  looked 
through  and  beyond  her.  "Sometimes  He  talks 
Latin  like  Father  Chucho,  and  then  I  don't  un- 
derstand Him.  But  He  has  a  nice  soft  voice 
like —  like — ,"  he  was  considering;  "like  Fa- 
nita,"  he  decided. 

His  fixed  eyes  did  not  see  the  sudden  fierce 
look  that  Dolores  gave  him. 

"Once  He  came  while  it  rained,"  continued 
Paez;  "but  generally  it's  at  night,  when  there's 
a  moon.  He  says,  Taez,  I  will  take  care  of  you 
now,  and  so  will  My  Virgin  Mother  and  San 
Rafael  and  Our  Lady  of  Santa  Fe  and  Our  Lady 


A  THREAT  AND  A  PLEA  233 

of  Sorrows  and  San  Francisco;  and  We  will  all 
come  to  you  on  the  cross;  and  I  will  take  you 
Myself—'  " 

Dolores  jumped  up;  but  the  monotonous  voice 
went  on  unheeding.  She  looked  at  him  fixedly 
a  moment.  Then,  "Paez!  Paez!"  she  said 
sharply;  but  he  ran  on  and  on.  By  degrees  his 
voice  grew  more  and  more  faint,  till  finally  he 
was  only  mumbling  to  himself. 

Dolores  frowning,  pushed  his  hand  impatiently 
with  her  bare  foot.  Pulling  it  away,  he  broke  off 
and  began  much  louder,  praying,  "O  Little  In- 
fant Jesus,  help  me — " 

Dolores  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  fervently 
and  didn't  kick  him  again.  He  lay  quiet;  but 
she  could  see  by  their  shining  that  his  eyes  were 
open.  She  dropped  to  her  knees  again.  Putting 
her  hand  on  the  coarse  cloth  that  covered  his 
breast,  she  shook  him  gently. 

"Paez,  I  am  going  away." 

Finally  he  answered,  "No,  don't  go." 

"Yes,"  she  fiercely  insisted;  "I  am  going  back 
to  find  Cristobal.    He  loves  me." 

Again  the  pause. 

Then  the  reply,  mechanically,  "I  love  you." 

She  bent  her  head  down  till  she  could  feel  his 
faint  breath. 

"Then  you  will  come  with  me,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,  Lola,  not  now, — " 


234    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Dolores  jumped  up.  She  looked  down  on  him 
an  instant,  wrathfully.  Then  she  turned  her 
back  on  him  and  flung  away  in  her  proud  walk, 
back  towards  San  Rafael,  towards  the  low-hang- 
ing golden  moon. 


XXVIII 

THE  BRAYING  OF  AN  ASS 

HOT  as  the  night  still  was,  before  she  had 
gone  far,  Dolores  was  running.  Even  as 
she  ran,  she  kept  discreetly  in  what  little 
shadow  the  houses  afforded;  and  coming  round 
the  backs  of  them,  she  slackened  her  pace  as 
she  reached  Panchita's,  where,  having  noiselessly 
skirted  the  adobe  walls,  she  came  into  the  porch. 
Listening  intently,  she  heard  the  sound  that  told 
her  the  housewife  was  abed  and  asleep.  But  it 
so  happened  that  Pasco,  having  dozed  again 
over  his  buckets,  was  still  sitting  heaped  up  be- 
hind them.  A  sudden  snort  disclosed  him  to 
Dolores. 

With  a  forefinger  on  her  lower  lip,  she  stood 
and  waited.  She  turned  one  ear  to  him;  but  he 
was  now  quiet. 

After  a  long  moment's  deliberation  she  slipped 
past  him,  and  through  the  large  dark  room,  and 
feeling  her  way  by  the  walls,  into  her  own  little 
room.  She  very  soon  had  rummaged  among  her 
things,  and  in  the  moonlight  was  examining  her 
little  white  pistol.  Holding  it  close  to  her  eyes, 
she  saw  that  it  was  loaded  and  in  working  order; 
then,  frowning  over  her  task,  she  carefully  took 
the  small  cartridges  out  one  by  one,  and  putting 

235 


23&    THE   PZNITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

them  on  the  floor  in  the  patch  of  brightness, — 
all  but  one  which  she  held  in  her  teeth, — she 
stretched  forth  her  bent  arm  and  hand  and  drew 
the  trigger.  Several  times  she  repeated  this;  and 
at  the  click  that  rang  sharp  and  clear  in  the  si- 
lence, she  shook  her  head. 

Then  she  replaced  the  cartridges  in  the  pistol, 
and  put  it  into  her  bosom.  Again  she  hesi- 
tated, frowning  and  moistening  her  lips.  The 
result  of  her  hesitation  was  that  she  soon  drew 
out  the  little  shining  weapon  from  her  bosom; 
and  having  stuffed  it  back  into  her  collapsed 
bundle  of  clothes,  she  stole  safely  from  the  room, 
through  the  shadowy,  tremulous  living-room, 
and  out  into  the  porch. 

Pasco,  with  folded  arms  was  leaning  against 
one  of  the  rough  posts.  Dolores  coming  softly 
to  him,  laid  a  hand  on  his  arms  and  said  in  a 
very  low  tone:  "Will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

Pasco  looked  down  at  her  and  nodded. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"Get  me  a  knife,"  she  breathed  into  his  face. 

Dolores  moved  aside  as  he  started;  but  she 
seized  his  wrist  and  held  him  a  moment,  pulling 
him  towards  her. 

"I  will  wait  here,"  she  said  sweetly.  "A  pointed 
knife.     One  of  the  big  ones.     Be  very  quiet." 

He  vanished  into  the  doorway;  and  she  stood, 
one  hand  against  the  post,  squeezing  her  lips  to- 
gether and  breathing  deeply.     As  soon  as  he 


THE  BRAYING   OF  AN   ASS  237 

reappeared  she  sprang  towards  him  and  got  the 
knife  into  her  hand.  She  held  it  down  at  arm's 
length  at  her  side. 

Then  she  paused.  Putting  the  palm  of  her 
left  hand  against  Pasco's  breast,  "Do  you  know 
where  the  Father  keeps  his  donkey?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  said  Dolores,  mov- 
ing nearer  to  him.  "Over  there,"  and  she  pointed 
far  across  the  Valley  to  the  east. 

He  only  looked. 

She  threw  her  left  arm  up  around  his  neck 
and  pushed  his  head  towards  her.  Leaning  her 
own  head  back  so  that  their  faces  were  near  to- 
gether, she  said,  coaxingly — 

"Do  you  want  to  come,  Pasco?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pasco,  his  arm  round  her. 

She  half  closed  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his 
till  she  saw  them  grow  tender  and  come  nearer. 
Then  she  suddenly  turned  her  head  and  so 
moved  it  from  side  to  side  that  his  lips  touched 
her  brow  and  brushed  across. 

Then  she  jumped  away. 

"Come  on,"  she  said. 

"It  is  horse-stealing,"  remarked  Pasco  gravely, 
as  they  got  under  the  stars.  "You  know  what 
they  do  down  there." 

In  the  San  Luis  Valley  they  shoot  men  for 
horse-stealing. 

Dolores  stopped  to  give  him  a  long  look  of 


238    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

contempt  before  saying  coolly:  "It's  only  a  don- 
key. And  I'll  send  it  back.  Besides  I  have  a 
■gun." 

She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  to  give  him  a 
good  stare.  Then  she  smiled;  and  starting 
off  on  a  round  pace,  turned  up  the  hill,  Pasco 
at  her  heels.  As  both  were  barefooted,  they 
made  no  noise. 

The  night  was  beginning  to  be  cool. 

They  passed  on  one  hand  the  big  house  of 
old  Oestocris,  on  the  other  the  square  black 
church.  When  they  arrived  before  two  little 
houses,  where  the  priest  and  Fanita  severally 
lived,  Dolores  halted. 

As  Pasco  silently  came  up  with  her,  she  di- 
rected him:   "You  go  get  the  donkey." 

"And  you — ?"  he  asked  doubtfully. 

"Shut  up,"  she  commanded  fiercely.  "Wait 
here  with  it." 

He  disappeared  behind  the  priest's  house 
where  the  donkey  was  used  to  be  picketed.  Do- 
lores waited  stealthily;  and  as  she  listened  at 
the  door,  she  examined  her  knife,  wetting  her 
thumb  and  running  it  down  the  edge.  The  point, 
though  a  trifle  bent,  was  sharp. 

All  at  once  from  behind  the  priest's  house,  the 
donkey  began  to  bray.  Instinctively  Dolores 
moved  away  from  the  door,  and  letting  fall  her 
arm,  stood  motionless,  trembling.  The  sound 
seemed  fearfully  loud;  but  it  was  over  at  once. 


THE  BRAYING  OF  AN  ASS  239 

Nobody  appeared  to  have  heard  it.  She  crouched 
in  the  shadow  of  Fanita's  house;  but  hearing 
no  movement  within,  came  out  again  just  as  a 
man  stepped  from  the  other  house. 

"Lola!"  he  said  at  once, — the  Father's  voice. 

Dolores  dropped  the  knife. 

"Lola!"  he  repeated,  not  loud  but  clearly. 
"What  are  you  doing?"  he  demanded  as  he 
reached  her.    "Ah!" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  the  moonlight  glisten- 
ing on  the  blade  of  the  knife,  which  had  stuck 
straight  up  in  the  ground. 

"I  was  going  to  kill  Fanita,"  said  the  girl 
defiantly. 

"Sh,  sh!  No,  no!"  he  said  soothingly;  "who 
is  with  you?" 

"Nobody." 

"Who  went  to  my  donkey?  Ah,  here  he  is," 
he  added,  as  Pasco  unwittingly  started  forth  and 
then  drew  back  behind  the  house. 

"Come  out,  Pasco,"  he  called  in  a  low  tone, 
"we'll  need  the  donkey.  Bring  it.  Give  me 
the  knife,"  he  commanded  the  girl  in  a  still  lower 
tone. 

Dolores  picked  it  up,  and  holding  it  by  the 
blade,  gave  him  the  handle. 

"Lola,  Lola!"  repeated  the  priest  sadly. 

Pasco  reaching  them,  stood  silent,  holding  the 
donkey.    The  priest  took  the  bridle  from  him 


240    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

with  one  hand  and  held  out  the  knife  with  the 
other.    Pasco  looked,  then  took  it. 

'Take  it  back,"  bade  the  priest  coldly;  and  he 
shook  his  head  and  sighed,  "Pasco,  I  am  disap- 
pointed. No  more  Saint  John  now.  You  will 
have  to  be  Judas." 

Pasco  hung  his  head. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want  to  take?"  the 
priest  asked,  turning  to  the  girl  who  stood  star- 
ing at  him  boldly. 

"My  clothes  of  course,"  snapped  Dolores; 
"and  who  has  my  money?" 

"I  gave  you  the  receipt,"  said  the  patient 
priest;   "you  can  get  it  in  Antonito." 

"And  I  want  my  white  mantilla  in  the  church," 
said  Dolores. 

"I  will  get  you  that,"  replied  the  priest;  "al- 
though you  dedicated  it  to  San  Rafael." 

Dolores  muttered  some  angry  remark  about 
San  Rafael. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  with  his  stateliest  step, 
leading  his  donkey,  started  over  to  the  church. 
Dolores  followed  close  behind,  and  Pasco  some 
way  behind  her. 

At  the  door  the  Father,  turning  to  Dolores 
who  was  about  to  enter  too,  holding  out  a  re- 
straining hand,  said:  "Do  not  come  into  this 
holy  place.     Not  till  you  have  been  absolved." 

As  he  disappeared  inside  she  broke  out  furi- 
ously, as  loud  as  she  dared:   "Holy  place!    My 


THE   BRAYING   OF  AN  ASS  241 

God!  You  cursed  Indians  that  nail  boys  on 
crosses!  Half-breeds!  Confound  you!  I  spit  on 
you,"  and  a  good  deal  more  in  confused  rage, 
which  caused  Pasco  to  open  astonished  eyes  and 
to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

When  the  priest  reappeared  with  the  white 
lace  mantilla,  Dolores  with  an  angry  grunt, 
snatched  it  from  him;  and  as  she  walked  down 
the  slope  towards  Panchita's,  she  tried  nervously 
to  fold  it. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  tightening  the  rope 
about  his  waist  as  he  waited,  and  Pasco  with  the 
knife,  stood  outside  Dolores's  window  while  she 
climbed  in.  They  qould  hear  her  inside,  throw- 
ing and  pulling  things  about,  choking,  sobbing, 
and  scolding.  As  their  serious  eyes  met,  the 
priest  shook  his  head  and  Pasco  again  looked 
down. 

Dolores  tugged  her  bundle  up  on  the  window- 
sill. 

"Here,  take  this,"  she  said  with  tears  of  anger 
in  her  voice. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  helped  her  out;  and 
getting  on  his  donkey  directed  her  to  put  her 
bundle  up  and  to  mount  behind  him.  Dolores 
shivered  in  the  chill  night  air. 

Pasco  stood  watching  them. 

"Good-bye,  Pasco;"  Dolores  defiantly  held  out 
her  hand. 


242    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Pasco  came  running  alongside  and  took  it;  she 
gave  his  hand  a  squeeze. 

"Good-bye,"  she  repeated  bitterly,  "you're  the 
one  decent  person  in  this  dirty  town." 

Watching  them  ride  off,  he  stood  alone,  till 
they  were  swallowed  into  the  night. 


XXIX 

FAY'S  GUEST 

DOLORES  and  the  priest  rode  down  into 
the  dark  Valley.  Sometimes  they  went 
in  a  slow  dog-trot,  but  generally  in  a 
walk.  The  moon,  near  her  setting,  shed  down 
a  weakening  purplish  light  on  their  backs;  there 
was  no  sound  of  any  living  creature  but  them- 
selves. As  they  crossed  the  ford  the  warm  water 
splashed  up  on  their  cold  feet. 

Then  on  they  rode  through  the  monotonous 
low-land;  on  either  side  the  fences  could  just 
be  seen,  black  and  endless,  running  along  for- 
ever. Beyond  them  was  the  dark  spread  of  the 
desert,  without  a  tree,  without  a  house.  Over- 
head the  sky  twinkled  with  stars;  as  the  moon 
grew  faint,  the  Milky  Way  became  distinct. 

At  first,  although  he  told  her  to,  Dolores 
would  not  touch  the  priest  to  hold  herself  on;  but 
before  long,  since  she  found  that  she  and  her 
awkward  bundle  rolled  about  dangerously,  she 
suddenly  put  one  arm  around  his  waist.  Frown- 
ing and  biting  her  lip,  she  maintained  a  dogged 
silence.  The  night  faded  out  and  the  unhealthy 
gray  false  dawn  began  to  spread  vaguely  over 
the  flat  Valley.  It  was  chilly,  and  there  was  a 
deathlike  silence  and  freshness. 

243 


244    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

The  priest,  taking  his  rosary  out  of  his  girdle, 
began  half-audibly  to  repeat  prayers  in  Latin. 

Dolores  tried  to  make  out  the  ghostly  sug- 
gestion of  great  mountains  far  away  over  the 
plain. 

When  he  had  finished  the  prayers  Father 
Maria  de  Jesus,  half-turning  to  his  companion, 
said  kindly:  "Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  confess 
you  now,  Lola?" 

"No,"  snapped  Dolores. 

"But  I  don't  like  to  let  you  go  from  me  with 
the  stain  of  sin  on  your  soul,"  he  protested. 

The  girl  tossed  her  head. 

"I  guess  there  are  priests  over  there,"  she  re- 
torted, "just  as  good." 

The  Father  after  a  moment  of  silence,  said 
earnestly:  "Yes,  I  know  there  are.  But  be  sure 
you  go  to  them,  Lola." 

Dolores  sputtered  in  disdain. 

"I'll  go  when  I'm  sorry,"  she  declared. 

The  Father  sighed. 

They  came  to  a  branching  in  the  yellowish 
road,  and  as  they  chose  one  turn,  Dolores,  in  a 
tone  of  suspicion, said  quickly:  "That's  the  road." 

"The  road  to  where?"  asked  the  patient  priest. 

"To  Las  Animas,  of  course;  that's  where  I 
want  to  go,"  she  answered  petulantly. 

"I  thought  I'd  take  you  to  Antonito, 
Lola,"  he  began  cautiously,  "to  Father  Eman- 
uele— " 


FAY'S  GUEST  24$ 

"For  my  money?    All  right." 

"Yes,  your  money  is  there,"  he  agreed;  "but 
I  thought  of  leaving  you  there  awhile.  I  know 
he  would  take  you  in,  and  you  would  have  a 
good  home.    His  sister  is  a  holy  woman — " 

"I  am  tired  of  holy  women,"  she  sullenly  inter- 
rupted. 

"But  you  have  no  one  to  go  to,  Lola." 

"I  have  Cristobal.  He  is  better  to  me  than 
you  are;  and  I'll  go  to  him,"  she  snapped. 

He  made  no  reply. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  asked  sharply.  "I'll  go 
over  to  Las  Animas  to  Cristobal.  He  is  wait- 
ing for  me  there.  I  won't  stay  with  your  old 
priest,  I  tell  you,  even  if  you  do  leave  me." 

"I  can't  force  you  to  do  this  and  that,  Lola," 
he  said  sadly.  "I  know  that,  but  I  don't  like 
to  let  you  go  off  this  way,  alone.  You  might 
not  find  Cristobal;  and  even  if  you  did,  I  am 
not  sure  I  want  him  to  marry  you  yet — " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  want  any  more,"  said 
the  girl. 

"Lola,  Lola,"  he  protested,  "be  more  charita- 
ble. I  can't  bear  to  see  you  going  away  like  this. 
But,  as  I  told  you,  I  cannot  force  you  to  do  any- 
thing, and  I  will  not  try.  Only,"  he  added  with  a. 
sigh,  "I  have  done  all  I  could  for  you;  and  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  hate  me;  and  if  you 
will  run  into  harm  because  you  do,  I  don't  know 
how  I  am  to  forgive  myself." 


246    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

They  rode  along  for  a  while  in  silence.  The 
dawn  light  was  thickening  and  the  black  bulk 
of  Blanca  began  to  show  strangely  in  the  still, 
weird,  early  morning.  The  houses  of  Antonito 
began  to  gather  into  sight  up  the  tan-colored 
desert.  They  came  to  a  wayside  artesian  well, 
and  Dolores  said  she  wanted  a  drink.  The  priest, 
dismounting,  had  filled  his  hat  with  water,  which 
Tie  turned  to  offer  her;  but  she  was  already  down 
and  was  drinking  at  the  foaming  spout.  So  he 
presented  his  dripping  hat  to  the  grateful  don- 
key. 

When  they  were  mounted  and  away  again, 
he  tried  once  more,  gently:  "You  are  a  very 
sinful  girl,  Lola;  and  I  think  if  you  would  stay 
only  a  few  days  in  this  peaceful  household — " 

"I  won't  go  there  at  all/'  interrupted  Dolores 
firmly,  "if  you  don't  promise  not  to  try  to 
make  me  stay." 

With  a  sigh,  "Well,  I  promise,"  he  replied 
resignedly. 

By  very  early  morning  they  plodded  into  the 
extreme  end  of  the  sleeping  village  of  Antonito, 
and  drew  up  before  the  priest's  house.  There 
was  not  a  living  soul  stirring  that  they  saw;  for 
the  hotel,  where  a  sentry  was  pacing  up  and 
down  his  post,  was  hidden  by  a  slight  curve  in 
the  street.  But  as  they  dismounted,  they  saw  a 
flash  of  green  inside  the  open  front  door:  and 
directly  afterwards  a  plump,  youthful  figure  in  a 


FAY'S  GUEST  247 

green  gown,  coming  out  on  the  steps  with  a 
broom  in  her  hands,  caught  sight  of  them,  and 
stood  leaning  on  her  broom,  quietly  eyeing 
them.  She  said  nothing  as  they  went  up  the 
walk,  Dolores  with  her  haughtiest  strut. 

"Good  morning,  my  daughter,"  began  Father 
Maria  de  Jesus  in  English,  as  the  two  halted  at 
the  foot  of  the  steps;  "is  it  too  early  for  us  to  see 
the  good  Father?" 

"If  you  mean  Father  Emanuele,"  said  Fay 
Grady  with  a  yawn,  "it  is  too  early.  There  ain't 
nobody  in  the  house  awake  yet,  but  me." 

The  priest  looked  dubiously  at  Dolores.  "If 
you  will  wait  a  little  while,  Lola,  I  will  leave  a 
note  telling  the  Father  to>  deliver  your  money  to 
you." 

Dolores  yawned  in  her  turn,  and  said  nonchal- 
antly, "I  don't  care.  I'm  pretty  tired.  I  can 
rest  awhile." 

"And  I  dare  say  this  young  woman  will  give 
you  some  breakfast,"  he  said  encouragingly. 

Fay  Grady,  leaning  on  her  broom,  said  noth- 
ing. 

"Could  you?"  he  asked  her  directly. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  could  or  not  till  I 
ask  Miss  Tecla,"  replied  Fay;  "she  might  be 
awful  mad." 

The  priest  smiled.  "I  am  sure  I  can  answer 
for  that,"  he  said;  "she  is  a  good  woman.  Do 
you  think  she  will  be  down  soon?" 


248    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Fay  took  her  mild,  steady  eyes  off  Dolores  and 
answered:  "Not  before  half  an  hour,  I  guess. 
You  can  wait  if  you  want." 

She  turned  her  eyes  back  on  Dolores,  who 
tossed  her  head  and  made  a  mocking  face  at  her. 

"No,  I  haven't  time,"  said  Maria  de  Jesus;  "I 
must  be  home  for  mass.  But  Dolores  will  wait; 
and  if  you  can  get  me  a  pencil  and  paper  with- 
out disturbing  any  one,  I  will  leave  a  little  note 
for  the  Father.    Could  you?" 

"I  s'pose  I  could  in  the  Father's  study,"  said 
Fay,  and  turned  ponderously  to  disappear  inside 
the  house. 

"I  am  sorry,  Lola,"  said  the  priest,  "that  I 
must  leave  you." 

Dolores  tossed  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say 
she  cared  little. 

"I'll  get  your  bundle,"  he  said  kindly. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  steps  with  it,  Do- 
lores still  stood  defiant,  shoulders  back  and  hands 
on  hips.  Presently  Fay  reappeared  with  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  a  pencil.  These  she  gave  the  priest, 
saying:   "I  couldn't  find  only  ink  at  first." 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  seating  himself  on  the 
lowest  step  wrote  on  a  higher  one.  He  wrote 
with  some  pains  and  very  laboriously.  During 
his  task  Dolores  more  than  once  fastened  her 
contemptuous  black  eyes  on  Fay;  but  the  stolid 
gray  ones  returned  her  withering  stare  most 
complacently.     The  endurance  of  optic  nerves 


FAY'S  GUEST  249 

might  have  been  crucially  tried,  had  not  the  end 
of  the  inditing  ended  this  silent  battle. 

"There,"  said  the  priest,  creasing  his  letter 
shut,  "give  that  to  Father  Emanuele,  my  daugh- 
ter.   Is  there  any  news  in  town  to-day?" 

Fay  hesitated;  and  at  last  answered  truly:  "Not 
as  I  know  of." 

The  priest  turned  to  go.  "Remember  what  I 
have  told  you,  Lola." 

At  the  gate  he  turned  back  again  and  called 
out :  "God  bless  you,  Lola !"  raising  his  hand  in 
benediction.  Dolores  leaning  forward,  spat  on 
the  ground  towards  him. 

Father  Chucho,  sighing  deeply,  pulled  his 
donkey's  head  round  towards  the  long  hot 
homeward  ride. 

His  parting  salutation  to  the  intractable  Do- 
lores probably  wakened  the  Sefiorita  Tecla,  be- 
cause he  had  not  been  gone  two  minutes  when 
that  severe  lady,  arrayed  in  a  gray  calico  wrap- 
per, appeared  at  the  open  front  door.  The  sun, 
now  fully  risen,  threw  his  early  hot  rays  into 
the  garden  and  upon  the  yellow  front  of  the 
house.  The  two  girls  were  still  upon  the 
steps. 

"Who  is  this?"  began  the  Sefiorita  sharply,  in- 
dicating Dolores  to  Fay  Grady. 

"I  don't  know,"  yawned  her  hand-maiden  dis- 
interestedly. 


250    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Where  did  she  come  from?"  Tecla  demanded 
with  a  shade  more  of  impatience. 

"The  little  Penitente  priest  brought  her  on 
his  donkey." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  said  Tecla. 

"He's  gone  away  again,"  Fay  replied. 

"Did  you  tell  him  the  soldiers  were  here?" 
asked  the  mistress,  anxiously. 

Fay  shook  her  head.  At  the  word  soldiers 
Dolores  smiled  with  furtive  pleasure. 

"Run  after  him,  Fay  Grady;  run  and  bring 
him  back.  Tell  him  about  it;"  bade  Tecla,  ner- 
vous with  excitement. 

Fay  didn't  move. 

"Do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Fay,  unmoved;  "but  he  said 
he  was  in  a  hurry;  and  I  couldn't  catch  him  if 
I  did  run.    I  can't  run  as  fast  as  a  donkey." 

"You  talk  as  slow  as  one,"  Tecla  snapped, 
glaring  at  her  with  a  look  of  helpless  agitation. 
She  fairly  trembled  in  her  anxiety.  But  a  gleam 
of  memory  seemed  somewhat  to  lessen  her 
worry. 

"I  believe  the  Father  is  going  to  send  a  mes- 
sage up  to  San  Rafael  to-day.  But  you  ought  to 
have  told  him.  Suppose  the  soldiers  are  sent  to 
stop  them." 

"I  don't  care  if  they  are,"  remarked  Fay. 

"I  am  ashamed — "  began  Tecla;  and  stopped 
with  a  gasp,  fixing  her  fierce  eyes  on  the  girl  as 


FAY'S  GUEST  251 

if  to  cow  her.  Then  she  turned  toward  Dolores, 
over  whose  face  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  had 
spread  during  this  conversation. 

She  spoke  to  her  in  Spanish.  "Are  you  a 
Penitente?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  answered  the  girl  angrily  in 
English;  "and  I  hope  the  soldiers  will  go  up 
there  and  catch  them.      Murderers!      I    hate 
them." 

Tecla's  face  was  aghast. 

"Here's  a  letter  he  left  for  the  Father,"  put  in 
Fay  with  great  equanimity,  pointing  to  it  in  Do- 
lores's hand. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before,"  exclaimed 
Tecla,  fairly  snatching  the  proffered  paper.  After 
hastily  reading  the  superscription,  she  hurried 
indoors  again. 

Dolores  looked  after  her  with  a  mocking 
smile. 

"Are  you  a  Mormon?"  Fay  asked. 

"I  am  not,"  said  Dolores  with  decision. 

"I  thought  you  wasn't,"  considered  Fay; 
"  'cause  you  are  so  peppery." 

Dolores,  bending  no  very  gracious  look  on 
her,  said  haughtily:  "Get  me  some  paper,  too. 
I  want  to  write  a  letter." 

Fay  looked  at  her  sideways,  and  made  no  mo- 
tion to  go. 

"Go  on,"  bade  the  other,  "hurry  up!" 

"I  ain't  your  servant,"  replied  Fay,  coolly; 


252    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"and  if  you  want  me  to  do  anything  for  you,  you 
got  to  say  'please.'  " 

Dolores  bit  her  lip,  flushing. 

"I  must  have  it,"  she  said  earnestly;  "get  it. 
Please,  then." 

"Do  you  want  Miss  Tecla  to  know  it?"  asked 
Fay. 

"No,  no.  I'm  going  to  write  to  my  lover," 
she  said,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence;  "and 
tell  him  to  come  and  get  me.  He's  afraid  of  sol- 
diers; and  I  want  to  see  if  he  loves  me  enough." 

"Well,  I  can't  get  it  now  without  her  seeing 
me,"  said  Fay;  "she's  in  there." 

At  this  moment  a  door  inside  was  heard  to 
open  and  to  close. 

"I'll  get  it  for  you  after  a  while,"  said  Fay,  low- 
ering her  voice;  and  then  the  Sefiorita  reap- 
peared. 

Meanwhile  Tecla  had  gone  into  the  ground- 
floor  room  where  her  brother  slept,  and  finding 
him  now  sleeping,  had  put  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der and  shaken  him  back  and  forth  till  he  awoke, 
blinking. 

"Here's  a  letter  from  Father  Maria  de  Jesus," 
she  said,  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Hm?"  he  mumbled. 

"Shall  I  read  it  to  you?"  She  opened  it,  and 
hearing  his  sleepy  murmur  of  assent  read  in 
Spanish:  "Beloved  brother,  you  may  deliver  to 
this  maiden,  Dolores,  the  money  I  entrusted  you 


FAY'S  GUEST  253 

to  keep  for  her.  She  is  a  headstrong,  violent 
girl;  her  soul  is  dark  with  sinful  designs.  I  wish 
you  may  persuade  her  to  remain  some  time  in 
your  peaceful  household,  for  her  soul's  sake. 
Your  brother  in  God,  who  kisses  your  hand, 
Maria  de  Jesus/' 

"A-a-a,"  muttered  Emanuele  sleepily.  Then 
rousing  himself  a  little,  said  thickly:  "The  money 
is  in  my  desk  in  a  bag.    You  can  get  it." 

"You  are  not  going  to  let  her  go,"  exclaimed 
Tecla. 

"Hm?"  he  queried,  turning  over  painfully  and 
panting. 

"See  what  the  Father  says.  We  must  keep 
her." 

"Do  as  you  think,"  said  Emanuele,  between 
half-groans.    "The  Father  is  always  right." 

Tecla  stood  resting  her  eyes  on  him,  musing. 
Her  purpose  was  growing  firm  in  her  mind.  She 
wished  her  brother  could  wake  up  thoroughly 
more  quickly;  but  at  the  same  time  she  realized, 
that  it  was  now  as  well  perhaps  that  he  didn't. 
A  gleam  of  pity  for  the  sick  brother  crossed  her 
ungentle  eyes;  and  without  more  words  she 
turned  and  went  noiselessly  from  the  half-dark- 
ened chamber. 

When  she  appeared  again  in  the  sunlight  on 
the  steps,  she  was  honeying  her  pointed  tongue 
for  her  charitable  ends. 

Dolores  herself  furnished  the  opportunity. 


254    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"He  said  you'd  give  me  something  to  eat," 
she  proposed,  pleased  to  be  gracious  too. 

"Of  course  I  will,  my  dear,"  answered  Tecla 
with  such  unwonted  unction  that  Fay  Grady 
turned  on  her  her  great  gray  eyes,  wider  even 
than  usual.  "Come  right  in  and  bring  your 
bundle.  I'll  take  you  upstairs;  and  Fay  can  be 
getting  breakfast  ready  for  us." 

Dolores,  with  a  swing  of  her  skirts,  swam  up 
the  steps,  brushing  against  Fay;  but  while  ac- 
cepting the  invitation  she  ignored  the  hint  about 
her  bundle,  which  Tecla,  with  a  sour  glance  at 
Fay,  was  fain  to  pick  up  herself,  and  follow  her 
new  guest  in  and  up  the  stairs. 

Fay,  with  her  usual  deliberation,  took  her 
broom  from  the  corner  of  the  door,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  the  kitchen.  There  some  five  minutes 
later,  while  she  was  bending  over  a  spluttering 
gridiron  on  the  open  stove,  she  heard  the  door 
open;  and  turning  her  heated  red  face,  saw  Do- 
lores with  head  thrown  back  swing  down  the 
three  steps  into  the  room.  She  came  close  to 
Fay,  and  in  a  low  tone  said:  "The  paper.  Don't 
forget.    She's  dressing  now." 

"All  right.  I'll  go  and  get  it  then,"  said  Fay; 
"here,  you  hold  this,  and  don't  let  it  burn." 

After  one  look  of  astonishment  Dolores  took 
the  handle  of  the  gridiron;  and  Fay  went  slowly 
from  the  room. 

Directly  she  returned,  and  as  she  opened  the 


FAY'S  GUEST  255 

door,  a  smell  of  burning  meat  met  her.  Dolores 
was  standing  by  the  open  window  on  tiptoes, 
peering  out.    She  turned  back  into  the  room. 

"Can  you  see  the  soldiers  from  here?"  she 
said:  "are  they  at  the  hotel?" 

Fay  who  had  lifted  the  gridiron  with  one  hand, 
and  was  holding  out  the  paper  and  pencil  with 
the  other,  answered:  "No;  the  fence  is  too  high. 
I  told  you  not  to  let  this  burn." 

Dolores  gave  her  a  serious  look,  and  said  noth- 
ing. She  was  twisting  the  point  of  the  pencil 
in  her  mouth. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  eat  it,"  remarked  Fay; 
"it  ain't  much  burned,  anyhow,  I  guess." 

Seated  before  her  sheet  of  paper,  the  new- 
comer was  bending  her  brows  in  cogitation. 

"Can  you  write  very  good?"  asked  Fay,  with 
a  slight  tinge  of  wonder  in  her  tone. 

Dolores  nodded.  "Good  enough,"  she  said, 
raising  her  head  afcer  tracing  a  couple  of  words 
with  even  more  labor  than  Maria  de  Jesus  had 
expended. 

"Do  you  know  any  of  the  soldiers?"  she  asked 
Fay. 

Fay  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  know  one  of  'em  what's  a  Captain." 

"Do  you  like  him?" 

Fay  considered  before  replying:  "Oh,  good 
enough.  I  ain't  worryin'  much  about  them, 
'cause  I  got  a  chance  to  get  married." 


256    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN    RAFAEL 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

"Naphtali?  Why,  I  suppose  he  is."  Fay  was 
filling  the  coffee  pot,  and  didn't  stop  to  ponder. 

"The  Captain,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  him?  I  don't  know,"  said  Fay  carelessly. 
"He  might  be.  I  ain't  known  him  but  only  yes- 
terday; but  he  kissed  me  last  night." 

After  a  contemptuous  stare  at  Fay,  who  was 
all  unconscious  of  it,  Dolores  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  then  leaned  again  to  her  letter. 
After  much  labored  breathing,  and  many  grim- 
aces, and  frequent  brushing  the  hair  from  her 
eyes,  she  at  last  ended  it. 

"Dear  Cristobal,"  it  read,  but  in  Spanish; 
"Come  over  to  Father  Emanuele's  and  get  me. 
There  are  soldiers  here.  If  you  are  not  afraid, 
and  love  me  still,  come.  If  you  don't,  I'll  marry 
them,  because  they  are  in  love  with  me,  and 
you'll  never  see  me  any  more.    Lovingly,  Lola." 

She  addressed  it  to  Janoso  in  Las  Animas 
County. 

"Will  you  take  it  and  mail  it?"  she  asked 
Fay. 

Fay  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a  moment  or 
two,  until  Dolores  stamped  her  foot  with  im- 
patience. "Perhaps  I  might  after  while,"  an- 
swered Fay. 

"It  must  go  right  now.  I'll  take  it  myself, 
then." 


FAY'S  GUEST  257 

As  she  heard  the  kitchen  door  open,  she 
shoved  the  letter  into  her  bosom. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  demanded  Tecla 
sharply. 

Dolores  opened  her  mouth  and  then  shut  it; 
but  her  eyes  flashed  as  she  answered  with  pre- 
ternatural mildness,  her  hand  still  on  the  door- 
knob:  "Just  for  a  little  walk." 

"It's  breakfast  time,"  said  Tecla  decisively; 
"besides  the  town  is  full  of  soldiers  and  I  don't 
want  you  walking  out  there.  You're  up  to  some 
mischief,  I'll  be  bound.  And  you,  too,  Fay 
Grady;  don't  you  go  out  except  when  you  are 
sent,  while  these  soldiers  are  here.  Come,"  she 
said  sweetly  to  Dolores;  "we'll  have  breakfast 
now." 

The  girl  hesitated.  She  bit  her  lip,  and  threw 
a  wicked  side-glance  at  her  hostess  before  she 
answered  mildly:  "All  right."  As  she  took  her 
seat,  she  asked:  "When  does  the  down  train 
pass?" 

"At  nine,"  said  Tecla.  "Why?  You  aren't 
going  away." 

Dolores's  feelings  burst  forth  in  one  flash.  "I 
am  when  I  get  ready,"  she  cried  in  a  rage.  Then 
she  subsided,  with  one  burning  spot  on  each 
dark  cheek. 

Tecla  eyed  her  ominously;  but  a  diversion  was 
at  hand. 

"Fay  Grady,  this  meat  is  burnt!"  she  said 


258    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

wrathfully,  as  the  dish  was  offered  to  her  by  her 
waitress-cook. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Fay  placidly.  "It  ain't  my 
fault." 

"Don't  make  excuses,  you  careless  creature!" 
replied  Tecla. 

For  some  while  there  was  silence  in  the 
kitchen. 

When  Tecla  and  her  guest  had  finished  their 
meal,  Fay  Grady  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the 
table  for  her  own.  Her  mistress  consulted  her 
watch;  put  it  back  into  her  scant  bosom  with 
compressed  lips;  in  a  few  minutes  consulted  it 
again. 

"Fay  Grady,  it  is  seven  o'clock  almost. 
Weren't  you  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  then?" 

Fay  arose  with  unusual  alacrity.  But  after 
taking  her  sunbonnet  down  from  a  peg  and  put- 
ting it  on,  she  hesitated,  while  she  stood  at  the 
door  waiting.    Tecla  prodded  her  again: 

"Go  on,  you  lazy  thing!    What's  the  matter?" 

"Was  that  the  Father  calling?"  asked  Fay 
demurely. 

Jumping  up  in  her  turn,  Tecla  hastened  from 
the  room. 

"I'll  take  your  letter  now,"  said  Fay. 

Dolores  ran  over  to  her,  getting  it  out  of  her 
bosom,  and  shoved  it  into  Fay's  hands.  Then 
she  too  gave  her  a  little  push. 

"Go  on,"  she  said. 


FAY'S  GUEST  259 

"I  am  a-goin',"  replied  Fay;  "but  I  think  you 
might  tell  me  'thank  you.'  " 

"Oh,  thank  you,  then,"  cried  the  other  with  a 
stamp  of  her  foot. 

Fay  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the 
hot  sunshine. 

She  passed  by  the  hotel  on  her  way  to  the 
station,  where  she  posted  the  letter,  and  then 
turned  back.  As  she  approached  the  hotel  the 
second  time,  she  saw  several  riderless  horses 
standing  before  the  door,  and  as  she  went  in 
heard  men's  voices  behind  a  closed  inner  door, 
upon  which  she  knocked. 


XXX 

A  MORMON  EMBASSY 

BY  SEVEN  o'clock  that  morning  after  the 
arrival  of  the  soldiers  at  Antonito  prob- 
ably everybody  in  the  San  Luis  Valley 
had  breakfasted.  It  is  not  a  region  where  men 
sleep  late.    The  sun  was  already  high  and  hot. 

There  was  not  much  liveliness  about  the  hotel. 
Houghteling,  Stange,  Wezel,  Dumain,  and  the 
Sergeant  sat  in  the  dining-room,  silently  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  Mormons.  Most  of  the 
men  were,  outside  in  the  shade  cleaning  their 
small-arms  or  playing  cards. 

Dumain  finally  said  to  Houghteling:  "Are  you 
going  to  send  up  to  San  Rafael  this  morning?" 

"You  seem  worried  lest  I  should  forget  my 
duties,  Mr.  Dumain,"  replied  Houghteling,  frig- 
idly courteous. 

The  Jesuit,  unruffled, answered:  "I  only  wished 
to  say  that  I  must  go  up  there  this  morning,  and 
could  carry  any  message  you  might  wish  to 
send." 

"I  have  already  detailed  some  one  to  go,"  said 
the  other,  a  shade  less  stiffly;  "it  w©uld  give  me 
great  pleasure  to  have  him  carry  your  message, 
if  you  wish." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Dumain;  "but  I  must  go  in 

260 


A  MORMON  EMBASSY  261 

person.  I  promised  Father  Emanuele,  who  is 
sick,  that  I  would  go  in  his  place.  So  as  to  make 
assurance  doubly  sure,"  he  added. 

Houghteling  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  him  some 
moments.  Then  turning  to  Stange  he  said,  qui- 
etly:  "Have  you  sent  that  letter  yet?" 

Stange  got  up  and  left  the  room.  Directly  he 
was  in  again,  saying:   "Wivvers  is  coming." 

The  trample  of  many  hoofs  not  far  away  could 
be  heard. 

"He  is  coming  in  force,"  Dumain  remarked. 

"He  may  think  we  want  to  bully  him,"  Alfie 
surmised. 

"No,  he  don't,"  began  Wezel.  "I  told  him 
you  wanted  him  to  help  you  fight  the  San 
Rafaelers,  and  if  he  wanted  Fay  Grady — " 

"Who  the  devil  told  you  to  say  that?"  cried 
Houghteling.  "Did  you  tell  him  that?"  he  de- 
manded of  the  Sergeant. 

"No,  sir;  I  only  gave  him  your  letter:  I  didn't 
know  anybody  told  him." 

"I  said  that  so's  to  explain,"  wheezed  Wezel. 

Houghteling,  silent,  looked  appealingly  at 
Stange,  with  helpless  anger  in  his  dark  face. 

"I  don't  believe  any  harm  will  come  of  it,"  put 
in  Dumain  encouragingly,  as  men  outside  were 
heard  and  partly  seen  dropping  off  their  horses. 

In  a  moment  they  came  stamping  in.  Wivvers 
at  their  head,  a  tremendously  big  creature  in 
boots,  stood  on  the  threshold  looking  them  over. 


262    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Behind  him  were  eight  other  lesser  but  stalwart 
fellows,  some  in  buckskin  shaps,  some  in  boots. 
All  alike  wore  flannel  shirts,  broad  felt  hats,  and 
at  least  one  revolver. 

"Mornin',"  growled  Wivvers,  coming  nearer. 

"Good  morning.  I  presume  you  are  Mr. 
Wivvers,"  said  Houghteling. 

The  big  man  nodded. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Houghteling,  sitting  down 
himself. 

Wivvers  planted  his  legs  firmly;  but  when  all 
the  receiving  party  sat  down,  he  sat  down  too; 
as  did  all  his  comrades  who  could  find  chairs. 

"I  guess  you  are  Captain  Ho — Ho ,"  be- 
gan Wivvers  in  his  coarse  nasal  voice. 

"I  am  Captain  Houghteling." 

"So  you  are  the  person  what's  going  to  get 
me  a  wife,"  said  the  Mormon  insolently. 

"We  understood  you  had  a  wife,"  said  Stange 
sarcastically. 

"I  said  nothing  in  my  letter,  as  I  remember, 
about  wives,"  Houghteling  stated. 

"Maybe  you  didn't  say  all  you  meant,"  re- 
torted Wivvers,  looking  very  black. 

"If  so,  it  was  because  I  can  say  it  to  you  face 
to  face,"  replied  the  Captain,  keeping  calm. 

"Well,  fire  away." 

"For  the  time  being,  I  am  the  highest  repre- 
sentative of  the  United  States  Government  in 
this  place." 


A  MORMON   EMBASSY  263 

"That's  our  Government,"  said  one  of  the 
Mormons. 

"I  have  been  sent  down  here,"  continued  the 
Captain  in  the  tone  of  one  that  condescends  to 
explain,  "to  put  an  end  to  certain  illegal  prac- 
tices in  the  village  of  San  Rafael.  I  needn't  say 
that  I  mean  the  crucifixion.  That  is  our  sole 
purpose  in  coming  here." 

"Oh!"  laughed  Wivvers  knowingly,  nodding. 

At  this  moment  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  cried  Houghteling. 

Fay  Grady  came  in. 

There  was  a  silence.  Wivvers  looked  right- 
eously triumphant;  Fay  surprised;  the  soldiers 
rather  discomfited. 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Dumain,"  drawled  Fay. 

"Who  is  he?"  Wivvers  demanded. 

"I  am  he." 

"What  did  you  come  to  see  him  for?" 

"The  Father  sent  me." 

"I  am  a  priest,"  said  Dumain  simply. 

"I  am  an  elder,"  said  Wivvers,  "and  that's  just 
as  good  under  this  free  Government.  I  can 
marry  people  as  good  as  you  can." 

"And  much  more  frequently,"  laughed  Alfie. 

"I  refer  to  performin'  a  marriage  ceremony," 
said  Wivvers  impressively,  his  voice  quivering 
with  anger. 

Houghteling  rose,  slapped  the  table  smartly 
for  silence  and  said:  "You  people  are  all  laboring 


264    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

under  a  mistake.  We  came  here,  as  I  told  you, 
to  put  down  the  disturbance  at  San  Rafael.  We 
sent  for  you  simply  to  see  if  you  wished  to — 
to — join  us  in  our  expedition.  There  is  no  cause 
for  quarreling.    Since  you  feel " 

"Maybe  we've  got  cause  to  quarrel,"  said 
Wivvers. 

"Likely  story,"  sneered  one  of  the  Mormons. 
"Didn't  you  bring  enough  soldiers  to  fight  your 
own  battles?" 

"WTe  didn't  wish  you  to  fight  our  battles," 
said  Houghteling.  "We  don't  intend  to  fight 
any.  We  only  thought  it  well  to  have  your 
moral  support " 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  what  you're  givin' 
us,"  began  Naphtali  Wivvers  hotly. 

Houghteling  flushed  red.  Turning  to  Stange, 
"Gad!"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  between  his  teeth, 
and  added,  "I  must  get  'em  out  peaceably, 
though." 

"You've  been  sent  down  here,"  Wivvers  went 
on,  "against  us  Saints;  and  you  can't  find  out, 
either,  that  any  one  of  us  has  got  two  wives,"  he 
fairly  shouted.  "So  what  do  you  do?  Why,  you 
come  sneakin',  spyin'  round,  for  all  the  world 
like  Indians  or  half-breeds,  tryin'  to  force  one 
of  us  into  a  polygamous  marriage,  so's  to  have 
evidence.  That's  a  nice  way  for  United  States 
soldiers,  ain't  it?"  Dumain  and  Stange  and 
Houghteling  looked  at  one  another.    "I  should 


A   MORMON   EMBASSY  265 

think  you'd  ought  to  be  ashamed,"  went  on  the 
furious  elder,  "It's  a  smart  trap,  ain't  it?  But 
you  can't  ketch  us,"  all  the  Mormons  grumbled 
in  assent.  "You  can't  convict  no  man  for  his 
intentions,  and  I  ain't  afraid  to  tell  you  I  was 
a-goin'  to  marry  that  there  girl  and  the  whole 
Valley  knows  it;  I  ain't  never  kep'  it  secret, 
have  I?" 

His  supporters  sang  out  "No,"  in  chorus. 

"I  understood,"  said  Stange  clearly,  "that  you 
were  waiting  for  her  consent.  Women  don't  like 
being  number  two." 

Wivvers  ground  his  teeth. 

Fay  was  still  standing  just  inside  the  door, 
her  face  and  attitude  as  placid  as  usual. 

"You  needn't  be  afeared  I'll  marry  her  now," 
Naphtali  sneered.  "You've  got  that  satisfac- 
tion." 

"You  can  marry  whom  you  damn  please,"  said 
Alfie. 

"And  play  your  little  hand  for  you,"  added 
Naphtali. 

"Maybe  that's  what  he  wants?"  suggested  one 
of  the  Mormons.  "Maybe  he  wants  to  be  joined 
to  her  himself." 

Alfie  gave  a  derisive  shout  of  laughter. 

"He  never  saw  the  girl  till  yesterday,"  said 
Dumain. 

But  Wivvers  grew  gray  with  suppressed  rage. 


200    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Turning  to  Fay  he  asked  in  a  quivering  voice: 
"Does  he  want  to  marry  you?" 

Houghteling  interrupted:  "This  has  gone  far 
enough.    I  give  you  my  word  of  honor " 

Wivvers  indicated  Stange  and  said  to  Fay, 
"Did  that  man  ever  make  love  to  you?" 

"What  nonsense!"  cried  Stange. 

"He  kissed  me  last  night,"  drawled  Fay. 

Wivvers  jumped  up,  oversetting  his  chair. 
His  eyes  fairly  flamed. 

"You  don't  mind  bein'  second,  do  you?"  he 
roared  at  Stange. 

Fay,  with  a  frightened  look,  hurriedly  added, 
"But  he  told  me  to  marry  you." 

There  was  a  moment  of  suspense. 

"Oh,"  said  Wivvers  in  a  suppressed,  deep 
voice.    "I  see.    Afterwards " 

Houghteling  stepped  forward. 

"Leave  this  house,"  he  commanded  firmly. 

Wivvers's  hand  went  instinctively  to  his  re- 
volver. 

"We  have  twenty  trained  men  to  nine  of  you," 
the  Captain  warned  him  quietly. 

Wivvers  let  go  of  his  pistol  and  began  to  back 
out  the  door  in  sullen  silence.  Slowly  the  nine 
Saints  slouched  from  the  house.  Houghteling, 
with  the  others  behind  him,  stood  in  the  door- 
way. 

"Be  careful,"  said  the  Captain,  as  the  Mor- 
mons mounted,  "to  make  no  disturbance  while 


A   MORMON   EMBASSY  267 

we  are  here.  You  had  better  not  come  to  An- 
tonito  again. " 

The  nine  men  rode  off  at  a  gallop. 

"Well;  quite  an  exciting  scene!"  remarked 
Stange,  turning  from  the  door. 

Houghteling  gave  him  a  withering  look. 

Fay  Grady,  who  was  behind  Dumain,  now 
pulled  him  by  the  sleeve  and  said:  "Have  you 
got  any  message  for  the  Father?" 

"I'll  go  over  with  you,"  Dumain  briskly  an- 
swered. 

No  one  said  a  word  as  the  two  started. 

Wezel  stood  in  dejection,  as  if  expecting  the 
blame  he  deserved  for  his  indiscretion.  But 
Houghteling  without  noticing  him,  said  to  Alfie, 
"Come  with  me,"  and  started  up  the  rickety 
stairs. 

Once  in  his  own  room,  Houghteling  closed 
the  door  and  then  said  quietly  to  Stange:  "You 
are  a  damned  fool." 

"I  know  it,  Dan,"  replied  Stange,  looking  at 
him  sorrowfully;  "but  you  are  the  only  man  I 
would  let  say  so." 

The  Captain,  unpacifled,  continued:  "Didn't  I 
tell  you  to  drop  that  marriage  idea?" 

"I  know  it,  Dan." 

"Why  did  you  kiss  her?" 

"What  do  you  kiss  any  girl  for?" 

"This  girl  isn't  even  pretty;  a  fat  Irish  Mor- 
mon!" 


268    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"There's  a  sweet  complacency  about  her  that 
I  like,"  said  Alfie,  musing. 

"Sweet  complacency  of  a  cow!" 

"Besides,  she's  the  only  girl  I've  seen,  Danny! 
Poor  little  Fay!  I  guess  she'll  never  be  married 
to  that  brute  now.  She's  a  good  little  girl,  too. 
But  I  think,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  his 
friend's  arm,  "your  friend  ought  to  have  a  share 
of " 

"It's  all  his  fault,"  said  Houghteling  grimly; 
"just  let  him  show  me  an  excuse  to  arrest  him. 
I  wish  I  had  arrested  Wiwers,  now.  I  was  only 
too  anxious  to  placate  him.  Having  him  would 
be  even  surer." 

"Oh,  we'll  never  see  him  again,"  says  Alfie. 

"I  hope  not,  but  I  don't  know." 


XXXI 

FATHER  CHUCHO  WARNED 

A  S  FAY  and  Dumain  walked  to  the  priest's 
/— \  house,  he  reproved  her  for  her  indis- 
•*-     ■*■  cretion. 

"I  reckon  it  would  'a'  been  best  not  to  say 
nothin',"  agreed  the  girl,  "and  after  this  I  won't; 
but  I  was  surprised,  and  I  don't  understand  for 
sure  what  them  soldiers  come  for  anyhow." 

"All  that's  necessary  for  you  to  understand  is 
that  you  mustn't  tell  anything  they  say  or  do, 
or  I  say  or  do,  to  the  Father  or  his  sister  or  the 
Saints,  unless  I  say  you  may." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  do  that,"  said  Fay. 

Dumain  found  Emanuele  decidedly  ailing.  He 
told  him  that  the  soldiers  and  a  delegation  from 
the  Mormons  had  had  a  stormy  meeting  in  the 
hotel  that  morning,  and  that  although  he  could 
not  exactly  discover  the  outcome,  he  now  felt 
sure  the  expedition  had  to  do  only  with  Man- 
assa.  "So,  if  you  like,"  he  proposed,  "I  will  go 
up  to  San  Rafael  to  encourage  them  in  their 
pious  undertaking,  as  I  now  see  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  go  on." 

Emanuele  wrote  him  a  letter  in  his  tremulous 
hand,  introducing  him  to  the  Penitente  Father 
Maria  de  Jesus.     But  when  Dumain  suggested 

269 


270    THE   PENITENTES    OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

that  he  tell  them  to  go  on  bravely  with  their 
ceremony  Emanuele  refused,  saying  with  senile 
caution  that  he  should  wait  first  to  see  if  the 
soldiers  left  Antonito. 

While  the  priest's  mule-wagon  was  hitching 
to  take  him  up,  Dumain  returned  to  the  hotel 
on  pretext  of  getting  his  beads.  Houghteling 
and  Stange  had  come  downstairs  again  and  were 
sitting  smoking  in  the  shade  of  the  doorway. 

"Have  you  sent  your  messenger  yet?"  inquired 
Dumain.    "I'm  just  starting  for  San  Rafael." 

Houghteling  very  slowly  blew  the  smoke  out 
of  his  mouth.  Alfie,  saying  nothing,  raised  his 
eyebrows  at  Dumain  as  the  other  at  last  an- 
swered: "We  are  going  to  run  this  expedition 
alone  from  now  on." 

"I  see,"  said  Dumain  quietly,  and  went  up- 
stairs. 

When  he  came  down  after  a  minute  or  two, 
he  paused  to  say:  "The  old  priest  is  so  much 
alarmed  that  he  bade  me  tell  them  under  no  con- 
dition to  go  on.  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Houghteling  coolly. 

The  man  who  harnessed  the  mules  declared 
that  he  was  unable  to  accompany  Dumain,  as 
Sefiorita  Tecla  was  sending  him  for  medicine  to 
La  Jara,  in  quite  an  opposite  direction;  but  he 
pointed  out  the  route  so  carefully,  that  even  in 
the  puzzling  monotony  of  the  desert,  Dumain 


FATHER  CHUCHO  WARNED     271 

was  sure  not  to  lose  his  way;  and  he  told  him 
where  there  was  a  wayside  artesian  well  where 
he  might  stop  to>  eat  the  lunch  Fay  Grady  had 
brought  him  wrapped  in  an  old  Denver  news- 
paper. 

A  ten-mile  drive  over  the  wastes  of  monoton- 
ous tawny  sand,  through  the  unmerciful  sun- 
shine, brought  him  to  the  well.  It  was  not  only 
too  early  for  lunch,  but  he  wished  to  be  at  San 
Rafael.  Sweep  the  orange  wastes  of  sand  as  he 
might,  he  had  seen  no  trace  of  the  soldiers'  mes- 
senger. So  he  halted  only  long  enough  to  let 
the  mules  drink  and  to  bathe  his  wrists  and 
glowing  face  in  the  cool  water,  and  made  on 
again.  Before  long  gathered  out  of  the  mirage 
the  brown  adobe  huts,  and  the  brown  adobe 
church  with  its  rude  belfry,  which  were  San 
Rafael. 

As  he  approached,  up  the  slope  of  the  hill,  he 
"was  aware  of  two  soldiers  mounted  waiting  in 
front  of  the  square  church,  one  of  whom  he 
directly  distinguished  as  the  Sergeant.  No  one 
else  was  to  be  seen.  Apparently  everybody  was 
at  mass.  He  left  the  wagon  in  the  shade  of  a 
house. 

He  bowed  to  the  two  soldiers  as  he  walked  to- 
ward them,  who  gravely  saluted.  Through  the 
open  church  door  he  could  barely  distinguish 
people  kneeling  in  a  dusk  against  which  the  six 
altar  candles  stood  out  like  drops  of  sunlight. 


272    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

They  gleamed  on  the  green  robe  of  one  celebrat- 
ing mass. 

Suddenly  he  halted.  He  had  just  noticed  out- 
side the  door  a  figure  of  some  one  in  a  loose 
brown  garment  crouching  rather  than  kneeling 
in  the  sand,  bent  under  the  weight  of  a  huge 
cross.  From  him  his  eyes  wandered  again  to 
the  six  or  seven  gaunt  black  crosses  stuck  up  in 
the  sand  here  and  there  about  the  hamlet.  The 
Jesuit  shuddered.  Those  crosses  marked  the 
graves  of  former  cross-bearers. 

"Have  you  waited  long?"  asked  Dumain  of 
the  soldiers. 

"Half  an  hour,  just  about,"  answered  the  Ser- 
geant. 

"It's  warm,"  said  Dumain,  glancing  at  the 
brown  heap  under  the  cross. 

"It  is  indeed,  sir,"  the  Sergeant  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead 

"You  talk  Spanish?" 

"Not  a  word,"  the  Sergeant  shook  his  head. 

"I  dare  say  he  knows  English,"  said  Dumain. 

"I've  got  my  letter,  sir;  and  if  he  don't  under- 
stand English,  the  Captain  can  write  another  in 
Spanish." 

"Or  I  can  translate  it  to  him,"  suggested 
Dumain. 

The  bell  began  to  ring;  and  the  Jesuit  imme- 
diately kneeled  down  behind  the  brown  figure 
on  the  ground,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross.    In- 


FATHER  CHUCHO  WARNED     273 

side  he  could  see  the  green-robed  priest  before 
the  altar.  The  bell  rang  again.  Dumain  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands.  The  celebrant  with- 
in raised  the  golden  chalice  toward  the  crucifix. 
There  was  a  hush.    The  bell  rang  again. 

When  mass  was  finally  over,  the  Penitentes 
came  out,  turning  at  the  door  to  bow  to  the  altar 
and  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross;  some  of  them 
assisted  the  cross-bearer  to  his  feet.  All  were 
bare-footed;  and  the  men  wore  long  hair.  They 
had  pathetic,  passionate  faces.  Though  they  all 
gazed  at  Dumain  and  the  soldiers  as  they  passed, 
none  of  them  spoke.  Silently  they  dispersed  to 
their  own  houses,  their  hands  still  clasped  as 
when  they  came  from  the  communion  rail. 

Dumain  watched  the  youth  tied  to  the  cross 
tremble  under  his  burden.  He  could  not  stand 
upright  beneath  its  weight.  There  was  a  numb, 
set  expression  on  his  regular  features,  as  if  he 
were  oblivious  of  his  pain. 

At  last  the  priest  having  laid  off  his  celebrat- 
ing robes,  came  out  dressed  in  a  dirty  brown 
gown.  The  Sergeant,  his  rein  over  his  arm, 
stepped  forward,  presenting  a  large  letter  sealed 
in  blue  wax.  At  the  same  time  Dumain  said  in 
Spanish:  "Be  under  no  apprehension.  I  will  ex- 
plain." 

The  priest  opened  the  letter  and  read  slowly. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  Sergeant  with  a  solemn 
half-bow. 


274    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  said  gravely. 

The  Sergeant,  embarrassed,  asked  if  there  was 
an  answer. 

The  priest  thought  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"No,  no  answer,"  he  decided. 

Without  another  word  the  Sergeant  and  his 
comrade  saluted,  mounted,  and  rode  off. 

"This  letter  is  too  peremptory  to  require  an 
answer,"  said  the  priest  calmly  to  Dumain.  "Be- 
sides  "  he  hesitated.     "You  are " 

"I  come  from  Father  Emanuele,"  answered 
the  other  in  Spanish;  "I  am  a  Jesuit." 

He  handed  him  his  note. 

"Ah,  yes;  I  see,"  said  the  Penitente  Father  in 
the  Spanish  of  the  Valley,  opening  the  note. 

When  he  had  read  it,  he  took  Dumain  by  the 
hand. 

"Welcome,  you  too  are  holy,"  he  said;  and 
leaning  forward  kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

Then  he  tapped  the  Captain's  letter  with  his 
finger  again  and  said:  "I  could  not  send  a  lie 
for  an  answer;  and  I  do  not  see  why  he  should 
prevent  our  celebration." 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  be  frightened,"  said 
Dumain. 

"Ah,  no;  we  are  too  much  in  earnest.  I  doubt 
if  I  could  persuade  my  people  to  give  it  up  now; 
and  as  it  is,  it  is  only  to  put  it  a  few  hours  earlier. 
We  will  do  it  at  sunrise.    But  come,  let  me  bring 


FATHER  CHUCHO  WARNED     275 

you  where  you  can  see  my  flock  together,  or 
at  least  the  most  holy  of  them." 

He  led  Dumain  by  the  hand  towards  the  larg- 
est of  the  adobe  houses. 

The  door  opened  into  a  big  dark  room  where 
a  number  of  people  sat  on  the  ground  in  silence. 
The  light  from  without  fell  on  a  highly  colored 
plaster  Pieta  on  the  wall  opposite.  As  his  eyes 
grew  used  to  the  dusk,  he  could  see  on  the  other 
wall  a  similar  plaster  crucifix  with  Mary  and 
John.  The  only  furniture  was  a  rough  wooden 
cupboard.  He  now  made  out  about  a  dozen 
squalid  men  and  women  with  bright  eyes. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus  spoke  to  one  crouching 
figure, — a  woman  who  seemed  very  old;  and  she 
bade  a  young  girl  fetch  seats  for  the  priests.  The 
girl  going  into-  the  porch  brought  a  wooden 
bench.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  in  a  low-necked 
red  waist. 

"She  is  his  sweetheart,"  whispered  the  priest 
to  Dumain. 

For  some  time  no  one  said  anything.  Some  of 
them  seemed  to  be  praying. 

At  last  Maria  de  Jesus  announced:  "This  is 
a  good  Father  of  the  Holy  Society  of  Jesus,  who 
has  been  sent  here  by  the  good  Father  Emanuele 
to  encourage  us  in  our  holy  undertaking." 

The  old  woman  after  a  moment  or  two  replied: 
"The  Blessed  Virgin  and  the  Blessed  Archangel 
San  Rafael  bless  all  good  Catholics." 


276    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

They  all  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  mur- 
mured "Amen." 

"She  is  the  mother  of  the  young  man  who  is 
to  receive  the  sacred  Stigmata,"  explained  the 
priest  aside. 

"I — I  must  congratulate  you  on  the  piety  of 
your  son,"  Dumain  forced  himself  to  say. 

"The  Holy  Child  gave  me  him  and  I  devote 
him  to  the  Lord,"  fervently  responded  the  old 
woman. 

"She  is  like  blessed  Hannah,"  chanted  another 
woman  from  a  dark  corner. 

"They  are  all  fasting,"  explained  Maria  de 
Jesus  to  Dumain.  "To-morrow  is  Sunday,  and 
then  of  course  we  eat;  and  Monday  is  our  holy 
feast." 

Dumain  now  said:  "Does  the  Father  mention 
the  soldiers  in  his  letter?" 

"I  will  see;"  and  he  consulted  the  letter. 

"Yes.  But  he  says  he  trusts  they  will  not  dis- 
turb us." 

"That  is  strange,"  says  Dumain,  "after  their 
message.  The  Government  you  know  does  not 
altogether  understand  your  mode  of  conferring 
the  Stigmata.  It  fears  the  danger  of  some  one 
dying." 

"What  is  more  precious  than  a  death  in  God!" 
responded  the  priest.  "But  no  soldiers  should 
stop  us." 


FATHER  CHUCHO  WARNED     277 

"However,  you  will  wait  as  the  Father  says, 
for  his  advice  about  going  on?" 

"Ah,  yes;  we  have  great  faith  in  Father  Eman- 
uele.  Once  before  he  warned  us  to  postpone 
our  festival.  But  now  the  time  is  so  near,  I 
doubt  if  my  people  could  be  persuaded  to  give 
it  up.  Unless,  indeed,  God  should  take  the 
young  man  to  him  by  a  miracle  before  Monday. 
But  I  will  send  Pasco  down  into  the  Valley  with 
you." 

As  soon  as  there  was  a  pause  in  this  conver- 
sation, a  voice  thin  and  quavering,  from  the  far 
end  of  the  room,  said:  "Perhaps  the  strange 
Father  will  pray  with  us  for  the  success  of  our 
holy  enterprise." 

Dumain,  kneeling  on  the  ground  floor  before 
the  bench,  prayed  with  all  the  spirit  he  could 
summon  and  in  words  as  ambiguous  as  he  might 
safely  make  them.  During  the  prayer  the  lis- 
teners many  times  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and  at  the  end  said  "Amen"  with  fervor. 

This  seemed  a  good  chance  to  leave.  At  the 
door  Dumain  turned  and  gave  them  his  blessing 
with  more  real  feeling  than  he  had  been  able  to 
put  into  the  prayer. 

The  priest  went  into  the  porch  with  him.  On 
the  ground  beyond,  the  sunlight  lay  bright  and 
hot. 

"If  you  will  wait  here  in  the  shade,  I  will  fetch 


278    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Pasco.  I  hope  you  will  come  to  us  on  Monday," 
he  said. 

"I  fear  I  shall  not  be  in  the  Valley  so  long. 
But  if  I  can,  I  will  find  out  at  what  hour  that 
morning  the  soldiers  march,  and  let  you  know. 
You  had  best  not  go  on  unless  they  get  here 
after " 

"Oh,  I  shall  not  go  on,"  said  the  other,  "unless 
the  Father  tells  me  to.  He  will  know.  And  in 
any  case  we  shall  now  begin  before  dawn." 

He  went  out  into  the  sunlight  to  find  Pasco. 
As  Dumain  waited,  the  pretty  girl  slipped  out 
into  the  porch. 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,"  she 
said,  softly,  coming  to  him  with  great  trustful 
eyes. 

He  remembered  that  she  was  the  sweetheart 
of  the  creature  under  the  cross. 

"Yes,  you  want  me " 

"To  pray  for  him,"  she  said  fervently. 

"That  he  may — may " 

"That  he  may  not  falter,"  she  said  with  ardor; 
"that  he  may  be  a  noble  and  willing  sacrifice." 

A  fine  flush  of  feeling  spread  under  her  dark 
skin  down  into  her  very  bosom.  With  parted 
lips  she  vanished  into-  the  darkness  of  the  house. 

The  Jesuit  in  the  warmth  of  the  norch,  shiv- 
ered. 

He  moved  his  lips  silently,  and  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross. 


XXXII 

A  PRISONER  IN  THE  PRIEST'S  HOUSE 

AFTER  Fay  had  left  the  house  to  go 
Z— \  on  her  errand,  the  Senorita  Tecla  soon. 
-*-  ■*-  came  back  into  the  kitchen.  Pausing  at 
the  top  of  the  three  steps  she  exclaimed:  "The 
Father  did  not  call  me —  Oh,"  she  said,  "she  is 
gone.  I  found  him  still  asleep,  but  he  is  getting 
up  now.     I  must  take  his  breakfast  in  to  him." 

She  bustled  about,  preparing  it. 

Dolores  turned  again  from  the  window  where 
she  had  once  more  been  peering  out,  and  with 
an  abstracted  stare  watched  her  hostess. 

"I  wonder  what  that  deceitful  girl  meant  by 
telling  me  that?"  pondered  Tecla.  "She  drives 
me  to  the  end  of  my  patience,"  she  went  on, 
pausing  in  her  task.  "She's  a  Mormon,  you 
know." 

For  answer  Dolores  merely  tossed  her  head 
superciliously. 

"The  trouble  and  worry  she  causes  me," 
pursued  Tecla,  taking  up  her  tray. 

After  she  had  hurried  from  the  room,  Dolores^ 
left  alone,  yawned  two  or  three  times,  and  finally 
sank  into  one  of  the  kitchen  chairs,  where  she 
soon  dozed  a  little  bit.  Before  long,  awaking 
with  a  start,  and  finding  herself  still  alone,  she 
sat  for  a  while  in  reverie.    Then  getting  up,  she 

279 


280    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

wandered  over  to  the  outer  door,  and  opening 
it,  stood  there  a  minute  or  two,  leaning  on  the 
post,  at  the  edge  of  the  sunshine.  After  a  while 
she  went  a  few  steps  out  into  the  bare  yard,  and 
after  looking  aimlessly  about,  tried  by  standing 
on  tiptoe  to  look  over  the  high  fence.  Finding 
this  impossible  she  strolled  back  to  the  house, 
and  was  standing  again  leaning  in  the  doorway, 
in  the  large  morning  silence,  when  hearing  a 
hand  on  the  other  door,  she  glided  in,  and  softly 
shut  her  door  behind  her. 

It  was  Tecla  again.  She  came  down  the  steps 
and  took  a  chair. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  church?"  she  asked 
amicably,  raising  her  old  eyes  to  her  guest. 

Dolores  shook  her  head  with  disdain. 

Pursing  her  lips  a  little,  Tecla  opened  a  black 
book  she  had  brought  in  with  her,  and  said  a 
shade  more  coolly:  "The  Father  is  not  feeling 
well  enough  to  say  his  mass  this  morning,  so 
I  am  going  to  read  some  prayers.  Would  you 
like  to  read  with  me?" 

Again  Dolores  shook  her  head. 

"You  can  read?"  queried  Tecla. 

"Of  course  I  can,"  cried  the  girl,  waking  up. 
"I'm  sick  of  prayers.  Father  Chucho  mumbled 
them  all  the  way  down." 

She  fixed  a  firm  look  of  defiance  on  Tecla. 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?"  said  that  good  woman 
frigidly. 


A  PRISONER  IN  THE  PRIEST'S  HOUSE    281 

"Yes,  I  am,"  sneered  the  girl,  mockingly;  "as 
good  a  one  as  you." 

"You  said  you  hoped  the  soldiers  would  stop 
the  sacred  festival  of  the " 

"Sacred  festival!"  jeered  Dolores.  "Sacred 
murder!     Indians!" 

Tecla  started  in  pious  horror,  but  she  persisted 
firmly :  "Father  Maria  de  Jesus  says  you  are  very 
sinful;   and  now  you  refuse  to  pray." 

Dolores  gave  a  shout  of  exasperation,  her  face 
fairly  blazing,  and  then  stopped  short,  turned 
her  back  to  Tecla,  and  with  a  swing  of  the  hips 
started  towards  the  outside  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  gasped  Tecla,  jump- 
ing up. 

Dolores  turned  again.  "I'm  tired  of  all  of 
you,"  she  said,  bitterly,  and  with  a  wicked  look. 
"I'm  going  to  see  the  soldiers." 

"Indeed  you're  not!"  cried  Tecla  hotly. 

Both  made  a  simultaneous  spring  towards  the 
door,  but  as  the  girl  tried  to  pull  it  open  Tecla, 
leaning  her  whole  frail  weight  against  it,  suc- 
ceeded in  turning  the  key  and  drawing  it  from 
the  lock. 

"Indeed  you  won't,"  she  repeated,  panting 
with  excitement  and  rage.  Her  usually  pale  face 
was  red  with  her  exertion. 

Dolores,  standing  close  to  her,  glared  at  her, 
clenching  her  teeth.     Her  hands  worked  ner- 


282    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

vously.    They  were  so  near  they  felt  each  other's 
breath. 

There  was  something  in  the  old  woman's  eyes 
as  strong*  as  Dolores.  The  girl  fell  back  a  step 
or  two. 

'I'm  not  a  prisoner!"  she  exclaimed,  affecting 
a  laugh.    "I  will  go  out  when  I  want  to." 

Tecla  continued  to  pant  and  pant. 

At  last  she  said,  "You  will  not!" 

Dolores  compressed  her  lips  and  glanced  from 
right  to  left.  She  tapped  with  her  foot  on  the 
floor. 

"If  you  go  now,  you  shan't  have  your  money. 
If  you  go  now,  you  shan't  come  back." 

"I  shall  have  my  money,"  cried  Dolores  pas- 
sionately. 

"The  priest  told  me  to  keep  you." 

"Curse  him,"  cried  Dolores  in  a  fury. 

She  looked  again  fixedly  at  her  persecutor; 
her  bosom  heaved  and  fell;  her  cheeks  were  red, 
but  her  lips  were  gray.  With  a  sudden  turn,  she 
ran  straight  for  the  other  door.  "I  will  go  out 
when  I  wish,"  she  exclaimed. 

Tecla  started  after  her. 

At  this  moment  that  door  opened,  and  Fay 
Grady  appeared.  While  the  other  two,  recoiling 
slightly,  stood  for  an  instant  fixed,  she  regarded 
them  with  a  gaze  of  mild  wonder.  Dolores, 
scenting  another  possible  opponent,  eyed  her 
narrowly.    Seizing  this  chance,  Tecla,  with  a  ner- 


A  PRISONER  IN  THE  PRIEST'S  HOUSE      2S3 

vous  dash,  darted  past  her^and  stumbling  up  the 
three  steps,  almost  knocking  Fay  down,  she  had 
slammed  the  door  from  the  outside  and  locked 
it  before  they  quite  realized  her  move. 

Fay's  mouth  dropped  somewhat;  she  con- 
tinued to  stare  wonderingly  at  the  other  girl. 

Dolores  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  again 
laughed  coldly. 

"Fool!"  she  exclaimed.  "Don't  stand  there 
like  a  cow." 

To  this  Fay  returned  rather  a  scornful  glance. 

"I  will  go  out  when  I  want,"  proclaimed  the 
other. 

"I  ain't  no  more  of  a  fool  than  you  are,"  said 
Fay  with  her  usual  self-poise.  "I  can  go  out 
whenever  I  feel  like,  without  her  knowing  it,  if 
I  want  to." 

"How  do  you  do  it?"  asked  Dolores,  almost 
mildly. 

"You  can  go  out  easy  at  night,"  suggested 
Fay. 

"I'll  go  now  if  I  want,"  repeated  the  other. 
"I'll  go  and  see  the  soldiers,  whenever  I  want" 

As  she  paced  restlessly  about,  she  put  her  foot 
against  a  chair,  and  petulantly  pushed  it  over. 

Fay  turned  her  head  to  look  at  it  where  it 
lay,  and  then  gave  her  equable  attention  again  to 
Dolores,  and  remarked:  "It  wouldn't  do  no  good 
to  go  now.    They're  all  pretty  mad." 

This  seemed  to  strike  Dolores.     But  after  a 


284    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

moment  of  thought  she  announced,  "I  want  to 
see  them." 

'They  ain't  so  much  to  see,"  said  Fay. 

Dolores  looked  her  over,  up  and  down;  and 
then  asked:   "Did  you  send  my  letter?" 

"Yes,  I  put  it  in  the  box,"  replied  Fay. 

The  other  girl  considered  again. 

"Don't  you  believe  she'd  let  me  come  back  if 
I  went  out?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  don't.    I  know  she  wouldn't,"  said  Fay. 

"I  could  get  my  money,  anyhow." 

Fay  gazed  at  her  with  the  vacant  look  of  one 
who  has  no  opinions. 

Dolores  pouted  and  frowned,  thinking. 

"Well,  I'll  stay  till  to-night,  anyway,"  she 
announced. 

The  key  of  the  inner  door  was  heard  being 
turned  in  the  lock. 

Tecla,  after  flying  from  the  kitchen,  had  has- 
tened to  her  brother's  study  to  lay  before  him 
the  case  of  the  rebellious  new-comer;  but  finding 
him  occupied  with  Dumain,  she  had  discreetly 
closed  his  study  door  again  and  waited  in  the 
hall.  Her  excitement  cooled  somewhat  while 
she  waited,  and  when  the  two  priests  appeared 
and  the  Jesuit,  politely  bowing  to  her,  left  the 
house,  she  was  ready  to  listen  to  her  brother's 
request  for  her  to  put  up  a  lunch  and  have  the 
wagon  hitched;  but  though  dutifully  she  set  out 


A  PRISONER  IN  THE  PRIEST'S  HOUSE     285 

to  arrange  this,  without  telling  him  now  about 
Dolores,  it  was  with  misgivings  that  she  returned 
to  the  kitchen  and  unlocked  the  prison. 

She  found  Dolores  also  much  calmer,  but 
when  the  girl,  with  haughty  silence,  came  di- 
rectly towards  her,  Tecla  was  alert  to  set  her 
shoulders  once  more  against  the  door,  and  to 
demand  where  she  was  going. 

"I'm  going  up  to  my  room,"  returned  Dol- 
ores, superciliously.  "I'm  sleepy.  I  suppose  I 
can  do  that?" 

There  was  no  deceit  in  this  bold  front,  and 
Tecla,  making  way  for  her  to  pass,  waited  only 
to  watch  her  actually  going  up  the  stairway,  and 
then  turned  with  her  orders  to  Fay  Grady. 

An  hour  later,  when  Dumain  had  been  sped 
off  to  San  Rafael,  Tecla  bethought  herself  again 
of  her  new  charge,  and  creeping  up  the  stairs  and 
through  the  passage  way,  she  laid  her  ear  to  the 
closed  door  of  the  front  room  she  had  assigned 
to  Dolores.  There  was  no  sound  to  be  heard. 
Craftily  turning  the  key  in  the  lock,  Tecla  was 
creeping  away  again,  when  she  heard  some  one 
flying  to  the  door,  throwing  herself  against  it, 
trying  the  knob  again  and  again,  and  pounding 
and  kicking.  Tecla  went  back  to  the  door  and 
said  sternly:   "You'd  better  keep  still." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  torrent  of  hot  words, 
so  awful  that  she  shrank  away  and  hastily  re- 
treated downstairs.    As  she  went  she  heard  loud 


286    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

and  passionate  sobbing  from  behind  the  door, 
and  then  more  pounding.  Directly  followed 
such  a  tearing  shriek  as  made  her  shudder,  and 
after  that  at  intervals  came  agonizing  screams, 
like  the  cries  of  a  child  insane  with  anger.  Dur- 
ing an  hour  or  more  these  distressing  sounds 
continued,  shrill  and  heart-rending.  Fay  Grady 
paid  no  attention  to  them  whatever.  Tecla  would 
jump  at  each  succeeding  one,  put  her  fingers  to 
her  ears,  sigh,  and  press  her  lips  tighter.  Father 
Emanuele,  sick  as  he  was,  seemed  too  torpid  to 
be  disturbed  by  the  noise,  though  he  did  ask  his 
sister  what  it  meant,  and  even  asked  her  if  she 
hadn't  better  release  the  girl  and  let  her  go*  her 
way. 

Tecla  steeled  herself  against  such  a  surrender, 
but  ultimately  her  nerves  were  so  wrought  upon 
by  the  screams  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  giv- 
ing in,  when  all  at  once  they  ceased.  So  great 
seemed  the  silence,  that  she  presently  stole  up 
to  the  door  again,  fearing  that  in  some  way  the 
girl  might  have  escaped.  After  listening  a  few 
moments,  regular  heavy  breathing  seemed  to 
indicate  that  she  was  asleep. 

Nothing  more  was  heard  from  her  all  day. 
Venturing  up  with  some  supper,  Tecla  made 
sure  the  prisoner  was  still  sleeping  before  she 
gently  unlocked  the  door  and  slid  in  the  tray. 
And  when  she  went  to  bed,  there  was  still  no 
sound  from  that  room. 


XXXIII 

DEVLIN    RETURNS 

DELOSS  DEVLIN  belonged  in  the  East, 
or  at  any  rate  what  is  considered  the 
East  in  Colorado,  and  he  had  intended 
going  back  there  soon  after  his  visit  to  the  Jesuit 
College  in  Denver.  But  as  he  had  nothing  to 
do,  and  as  he  knew  that,  though  he  was  by  no 
means  an  invalid,  the  tonic  air  of  Colorado  was 
considered  good  for  him,  he  had  lingered  several 
weeks  longer.  It  was  only  on  the  20th  of  Octo- 
ber that,  suddenly  remembering  that  the  feast  of 
San  Rafael  came  in  four  days,  he  as  suddenly 
realized  that  it  was  his  unusual  interest  in  the 
Penitentes  that  had  kept  him  so  long  in  that  re- 
gion. As  he  thought  of  them  again,  he  was  once 
more  singularly  moved.  Curiosity,  if  not  sym- 
pathy, drew  him  back  to  the  great  placid  sun- 
shine of  the  San  Luis  Valley.  Idler  that  he  was, 
there  was  no  reason  not  to  go  whither  he  would. 
His  cousin's  ranch  was  almost  in  the  very 
shadow  of  Blanca,  only  a  few  miles  from  An- 
tonito.  He  would  go  see  what  the  Jesuits  had 
really  thought  to  do,  if  anything.  He  tele- 
graphed to  his  cousin. 

Next  day  came  an  answer  that  none  of  the 
family  was  in  the  Valley.    But  his  mind  was  now 

287 


288    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

set;  and  remembering  the  one-eyed  host  at  An- 
tonito,  he  took  the  train,  and  arrived  the  day 
after  the  soldiers  and  Dumain. 

After  the  precipitate  departure  of  the  Mor- 
mons, Alfred  Stange  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  the  day  reading  a  torn  French  novel  he  found 
in  the  bar.  He  was  sitting  there,  with  a  glass  of 
beer  on  the  table  beside  him,  poring  over  the 
last  pages,  that  afternoon,  when  he  almost  sub- 
consciously heard  the  clanging  and  wheezing  of 
the  train,  and  its  final  decreasing  roar  and  hum, 
off  into  the  silence.  A  minute  or  two  later  he 
heard  a  strange  voice  talking  to  Wezel  outside 
the  open  front  door.  Raising  his  eyes  languidly 
from  his  book,  he  could  not,  from  where  he  sat, 
see  who  it  was,  nor  could  he  catch  the  talk. 
Again  a  minute  or  so,  and  he  looked  up  to  have 
a  glimpse  of  a  young  man  crossing  before  the 
door  of  the  bar-room,  and  heard  him  go  up- 
stairs. Then  Wezel  limped  into  the  room  and 
got  the  precious  register  off  the  bar.  To  a  ques- 
tion of  Stange's,  he  only  wheezed  an  unintelli- 
gible reply  as  he  limped  out  again;  but  when  he 
presently  returned  and  deposited  the  book  in  its 
place,  he  shuffled  over  the  ink-tracked  leaves, 
and  running  his  finger  along  the  line,  read  aloud: 
"D — E — Deloss  Devlin.  That's  who  he  is. 
Why,  he's  been  here  before." 

"Who  is  the  gent?"  Stange  asked,  getting  up, 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  289 

and  kicking  the  stiffness  out  of  his  knees,  as  he 
went  over  to  see. 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is,"  said  Wezel.  "He 
was  here  one  day  a  month  or  so  gone,  and  asked 
me  questions  about  the  Penitentes,  's  if  I  was  a 
witness  on  the  stand;  and  then  he  went  over  to 
see  old  Emanuele.  And  now  this  time,  the  first 
thing  he  asks  me,  'Is  there  any  Jesuits  here?'  " 

"Any!"  said  Stange.  "One's  enough.  What 
does  he  want?    Whole  schools  of  'em?" 

"Maybe  he  might  be  one  hisself,"  suggested 
Wezel,  coughing. 

Stange  put  one  hand  to  his  head  with  a  thea- 
tric gesture  of  despair,  and  sighed. 

"Gee!  It  was  bad  enough  when  only  Luke 
was  with  us!  But  I  guess  I'll  go  up  and  advise 
Dan  about  this." 

With  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  strolled  up 
to  Houghteling's  room  and  kicked  on  the  door. 
The  Captain  was  at  a  small  table,  busily  writing. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  said  rather  curtly,  as 
Stange  idled  in,  whistling,  and  banged  the  door 
to  with  his  foot. 

"A  cheerful  greeting  first,  Danny,"  replied 
Alfie,  pleasantly.  "You  are  so  good-humored. 
Do  you  remember,  Emerson  says " 

"Cut  all  that,"  put  in  Houghteling.  "Don't 
you  see  I'm  busy?" 

"Can  it  be!"  exclaimed  Alfie,  raising  his  two 
hands.    "Well,  here's  to  make  you  more  so."  He 


290    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

came  around  in  front  of  his  friend  and  sat  on  the 
corner  of  the  table. 

"Get  off,  you — you  child !"  growled  Houghtel- 
ing* givmg"  him  a  push  that  sent  him  nearly 
sprawling. 

Stange  returned,  good-natured  as  ever,  and 
again  sat  on  the  papers  on  the  table.  Hough- 
teling  looked  up  at  him  with  a  lurking  smile  in 
his  vexed  black  eyes. 

"A  young  gentleman  has  just  come,"  began 
Stange,  marking  his  words  with  one  forefinger, 
"who  is  strongly  suspected  by  Peter  Wezel  and 
me  to  be  in  the  hire  of  the  Jesuits,  if  he  is  not 
actually  one  of  those  insidious  persons  himself." 

"Come?    From  where?"  asked  the  other. 

"From  the  late  arriving  train,"  explained  Alfie. 
"Do  you  forget  we  are  still  in  the  land  of  civiliza- 
tion and  progress?  How  did  you  suppose  he 
came?    In  an  aeromotor?" 

Houghteling  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  to  him  and  find 
out " 

"Just  what  I  came  to  inform  you  I  was  going 
to  do." 

"You  have  my  permission,"  said  the  Captain 
gravely. 

"Go  on!"  laughed  Stange,  and  gave  his  supe- 
rior officer  a  light  slap  on  the  cheek. 

"Find  out  what  he  came  for,"  continued 
Houghteling,  laying  a  hand  on  AlfiVs  knee. 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  291 

"Just  what  I  intended  to  do,"  said  Stange. 

"And — well,  for  heaven's  sake  go,  and  don't 
bother  me." 

Stange  laughed  again,  got  up,  and  with  a  pass- 
ing punch  between  Houghteling's  broad  shoul- 
ders, strolled  out  again.  In  the  dim  hallway  he 
stood  for  a  few  moments,  twisting  his  yellow 
mustache  consideringly.  At  last  he  knocked 
on  the  door  and  then  went  in.  Devlin, 
who  was  standing  in  his  undershirt,  shaving  be- 
fore a  clouded  mirror,  turned  his  face  half  cov- 
ered with  lather.  Stange,  rubbing  one  hand  over 
his  own  jaw,  remarked  mockingly  to  himself, 
"He'll  be  cutting  me  out,"  and  as  the  other  stood 
silent,  waiting  for  him  to  begin,  went  on  aloud, 
hesitating  as  if  a  trifle  embarrassed:  "I  hope  you 
will  pardon  my  intruding  on  your  privacy,  Mr. 
Devlin." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  answered  Devlin,  gravely. 
The  lather  quite  concealed  any  expression 
around  his  mouth. 

"You'd  better  go  on  shaving  before  the  soap 
gets  dry,"  said  Stange  in  his  usual  good-humored 
fashion,  and  sitting  down  in  a  chair.  "Don't 
mind  me." 

The  other  young  man  accordingly  turned  to- 
ward the  spotty  mirror  again,  and  attacked  one 
side  of  his  face  gingerly.  He  scraped  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  and  wiped  his  razor  on  a  bit  of 
newspaper,  before  saying:   "Is  there  anything  I 


292    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

can  do  for  you?  I  can  listen  while  I  shave,  even 
if  I  can't  talk/' 

Stange,  who  had  drawn  a  silver  case  from  one 
trousers  pocket  and  a  loose  match  or  two  from 
the  other,  went  on  lighting"  his  cigarette.  He 
made  a  motion  of  offering  one  to  his  host,  but 
remarking,  "Of  course,  you  can't,"  put  away  the 
case.  Then  he  blew  a  long  whiff  or  two  rather 
nervously,  and  finally  answered,  with  a  frank 
look  at  the  other's  dim  reflection  in  the  smoky 
mirror:  "I  did  have  a  speech  all  made  up  to 
spring  on  you,  quite  a  diplomatic  one,  too;  but 

speeches  to ,"  he  paused  to  inhale  and  blow 

another  whiff.  "I  believe  it  pays  to  be  honest. 
You  aren't  much  older  than  I  am,  and  as  far  as  I 
can  see,  you  haven't  got  that  hang-dog,  foxy 
look — ' — .  The  truth  is,  old  man,  you're  sus- 
pected of  being  in  with  the  Jesuit  in  this  game/' 
Alfie  looked  relieved  when  this  was  said,  and 
knocked  off  his  cigarette. 

Devlin  finished  an  up-stroke  or  two  on  his 
throat,  and  then  calmly  asked:    "What  game?" 

Stange  laughed 

"That's  good !"  he  said.  "Still,"  he  considered, 
"this  isn't  a  barracks,  is  it?  I  forgot  it's  a  public 
hotel  in  a  free  land,  and  a  chap  might  come  here 
without  having  anything  to  do  with  the  Peni- 
tentes  one  way  or  another.  Though  God  may 
know  what  he'd  want  in  this  hole, — I  don't." 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  293 

"You  are  here,  then,  about  the  Penitentes?" 
asked  Devlin. 

"Of  course,  we  are!  Of  course,  we  are!  Old 
Dumain  wants  to  persuade  us  we're  not,  or  at 
any  rate  to  make  out  we're  not.  But  we  aren't 
for  his  diplomatic  bluffs;  we're  United  States 
soldiers,  and  we're  above  all  subterfuge.  We 
came  down  here  to  clean  out  the  crucifiers.  And 
I  say,  let's  do  it,  and  get  home." 

Devlin,  who  was  rubbing  his  reddened  chin, 
shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  you  are  for  'em,  then,  are  you?"  said 
Stange,  quickly. 

"For  them?  No.  What  I  meant  was,  it  seems 
awfully  cruel  to  be  harsh  with  them." 

"Ah,  hell!"  drawled  Stange  derisively. 

The  other  reddened  a  trifle  more. 

"However,  I  see  you're  not  with  old  Dumain," 
Stange  pursued.  "You  wouldn't  be  so  candid  if 
you  were;  and,  besides,  he  has  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent scheme  from  yours.  But  we  were  sent 
here  to  run  this  circus." 

"I'm  really  sorry  you  were,"  said  Devlin. 

Then  he  plunged  his  face  into  his  washbowl 
of  water.  When  he  raised  it,  spluttering,  and 
began  to  dry  it  with  a  towel,  Stange  asked,  as  if 
indifferently:  "Why  that  courteous  remark? 
'Fraid  we'll  botch  it?" 

"I  don't  know  how  you  happened  to  be  sent 
here,"  answered  Devlin;  "but  I  have  an  idea  that 


294    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

I  was  the  original  person  to  spread  the  informa- 
tion of  the  need  there  was  for  something  being 
done  to  put  an  end  to  these  crucifixions,  and  I 
should  feel  guilty  if  I  had  brought  death  and 
destruction  down  on  those  poor,  misguided 
fanatics." 

"Death  and  destruction,  in  the  shape  of  me 
and  my  like!"  said  Stange  ironically.  "What 
peaceful  method  would  you  have  employed  to 
stamp  out  murder?" 

"I  tried  to  start  the  peaceful  method  that 
seemed  best  to  me,"  Devlin  replied  seriously  to 
the  banterer.  He  had  put  on  his  shirt  and  coat, 
and  now  sat  down  opposite  Stange.  "And  that 
was  to  inform  the  Jesuit  College  about  it 
and " 

"You  did?"  cried  Alfie,  sitting  bolt  upright. 
"You  got  old  Dumain  sent  down  here?" 

"I  don't  know  whom  they  sent.  If  he's  a 
Jesuit,  I  suppose  I  did." 

"You  thought  that  was  the  best  way  to  put 
down  this  thing!  Why,  even  Dumain  only  wants 
to  make  use  of  us." 

"I  did  think  so,"  Devlin  admitted  serenely. 

"Well  of  all — "  Alfie  jumped  up — "asinine, 
short-sighted " 

Devlin  jumped  up  too,  now  fiery  red.  "I'll 
be  damned!"  he  said,  and  glared  at  Alfie. 

Stange  at  once  melted  in  laughter.  "Hell! 
Don't  be  mad!  old  man,"  he  said.    "I  beg  your 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  295 

pardon.  I  dare  say  people  do  have  different  ways 
of  looking  at  things."  He  seized  Devlin's  reluc- 
tant hand  and  shook  it.  "Have  a  cigarette."  He 
offered  him  one,  patting  him  on  the  back  the 
while.  "Come  down  stairs  and  have  a  drink  with 
me.    I'm  sure  you're  not  in  old  Dumain's  party." 

Devlin  took  the  cigarette,  but  while  lighting 
it,  shook  his  head  and  said:  "I'm  not  so  sure. 
Not  till  I  hear  what  his  party  is  anyway." 

Again  Stange  clouded.  Patting  his  breast 
downward  with  both  hands,  he  put  one  inside  his 
blouse  and  brought  out  a  soiled  time-table.  As 
he  unfolded  it,  and  ran  his  ringer  down  one  page, 
he  said:  "If  you're  not  sure,  you  may  make  more 
trouble  for  us;  and  in  that  case,  I  advise  you  to 
get  out.  Dan  is  sure  to  suspect  you;  and  if  he 
does,  I  shall,  because  I  won't  be  insubordinate. 
There's  a  train  up  at  ten-ten;  there's  one  to 
Creede  at  midnight, — take  your  choice.  But  if 
you  stay,  and  if  you  aid  and  abet  that  Jesuit,  I 
tell  you  now  you're  in  danger  of  being  put  under 
martial  law.  And  after  all,"  he  considered,  "I 
don't  see  what  you're  here  for  unless  it  is  to  help 
him  out.  We  didn't  want  you.  Oh,  dear;  why 
are  these  sly  schemers  so  open  and  candid? 
Just  let  me  look  if  you've  got  a  tonsure." 

"All  I  came  for  was,  I  suppose,  idle  curiosity," 
said  Devlin,  smiling.  "I  had  got  up  some  inter- 
est in  one  or  two  of  these  people  down  here,  and 
I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  it  out.     I  had  no 


296    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

idea  you  soldiers  would  be  here.  But  I  have  no 
intention  of  leaving  because  you  are." 

"Good!"  cried  Stange.  "I  like  that.  Well, 
I'll  tell  you,"  he  added  candidly;  "the  man  who 
wants  them  cleaned  out  with  fire  and  sword  is 
your  friend  the  Jesuit.  We  only  want  to  block 
their  game." 

Suddenly  he  put  his  hand  to  his  ear.  "Sh! 
Didn't  I  hear  a  wagon?  There's  some  one  com- 
ing upstairs."  After  a  look  out  of  the  window, 
he  exclaimed:  "It's  Dumain  back.  You  must 
excuse  me.    I'll  see  you  later." 

He  hurried  from  the  room,  leaving  Devlin  with 
a  smile  on  his  face.  Rattling  down  the  stairs  to 
the  door,  Stange  gazed  for  a  moment  or  two  at 
a  handsome  youth  with  high  cheek-bones  and 
straight  black  hair,  who  sat  in  the  mule-wagon 
holding  the  lines.  Then  with  a  sudden  decision 
he  went  out  to  him  and  said,  "How  are  you?" 

The  young  man,  blankly  shaking  his  head,  re- 
plied in  Spanish. 

"Hell!"  said  Alfie. 

Dumain,  with  his  carpet-bag,  then  reappeared. 

"I've  been  trying  to  talk  with  your  friend," 
says  Stange. 

"Oh,  he's  a  Penitente." 

"Come  on  a  visit,  I  suppose." 

"I  believe  he's  going  back  in  the  morning," 
said  Dumain,  getting  into  the  wagon. 

"And  you  are  going  to  leave  us,  too?" 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  297 

"I  am  going  to  stay  with  Father  Emanuele, 
to-night.     He's  pretty  sick." 

"Well,  good-bye.  See  you  again,  I  hope.  Be 
good!" 

As  Stange  turned  to  go  in  he  heard  Devlin's 
voice  from  above  calling,  "Oh,  Father  Dumain!" 
and  as  he  went  up  the  stairs  he  met  that  young 
man  coming  down. 

"You  will  incur  suspicion.  I  warn  you,"  he 
said  jokingly  as  he  passed  him. 

He  hurried  on  upstairs  and  burst  into  Hough- 
teling's  room. 

"The  Jesuit's  got  a  new  game!  His  stunt  of 
talking  Spanish  before  the  Sergeant  was  good; 
but  now  he's  brought  down  a  dago  and  has 
deserted  over  to  Emanuele's  camp." 

"Brought  down — What  for?"  asked  Hough- 
teling. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  exactly  gather  why.  You 
know  the  lucid  way  he  has  of  explaining  things. 
But  I  guess  it's  only  a  messenger." 

"We  must  intercept  any  message  they  send, 
and  read  it,"  Houghteling  spoke  decisively. 

"How'll  we  manage  it?"  asked  Alfie,  lighting 
a  cigarette. 

"There's  only  one  spy  we  can  get  in  that 
house." 

"Who's  that?" 

"Fay  Grady,  of  course." 

"Pretty  spy  she'd  make.    Blew  once." 


298    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"But  I  don't  believe  she  will  again,*"  said 
Houghteling.  "So  you'd  better  see  her,  Alf, 
and " 

"Now,  look  here,  Houghteling,  I'm  done  with 
that  girl." 

"You're  her  friend.  You'll  have  to  arrange  it" 

"I  got  you  into  trouble  once  through  her, 
hang  it." 

"Well,  we're  rid  of  the  Mormons." 

"I'm  likely  to  do  it  again,"  said  Alfie  hope- 
lessly. 

"Don't  be  a  fool.    Go  and  arrange." 

"Is  it  a  command?"  Alfie  wore  a  very  worried 
look. 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is." 

"Well,  wait  till  the  sun  is  down,  Danny,"  and 
Alfie  leaned  back  to  enjoy  his  cigarette. 

Suddenly  he  got  up  as  if  a  new  thought  had 
just  struck  him. 

"Young  Devlin's  down  there  talking  to  Du- 
main,"  he  said,  and  going  to  the  window,  added, 
"Yes,  he  is!    Getting  his  orders,  I  guess." 

"Do  you  think  this  one  is  a  Jesuit?"  asked 
Houghteling. 

"No,  I  don't.  But  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  see 
what  he  came  here  for." 

"What  does  he  say  he  came  for?" 

"Curiosity,"  laughed  Alfie,  wrinkling  his  brow. 
"I  can  imagine  a  man  going  to  New  York  out  of 
curiosity,  but .    He's  been  here  before,  too. 


DEVLIN   RETURNS  299 

I  wonder  if  he's  gone  on  Fay  Grady.    I  bet  that's 
it." 

"We  must  keep  an  eye  on  him,"  said  Hough- 
teling;  "as  long  as  he  stays  here,  and  the  other 
one  there,  he's  pretty  safe,  I  guess.  You  might 
go  down,  though,  and  see  what  they're  saying." 

Meanwhile  the  mule-wagon  had  drawn  up,  and 
Devlin  had  gone  down  to  it. 

"My  name  is  Devlin,"  he  began. 

Dumain,  leaning  down  from  the  seat,  cordially 
reached  a  hand  to  him.  "I  am  sure,  Mr.  Dev- 
lin  " 

"It  was  I  who  carried  the  rumor  of  this  cru- 
cifixion to  Father  Mansifee " 

"Then,"  said  Dumain,  blandly,  "you  have 
done  a  good  work." 

"I  fear  our  views  about  it  may  not  be  just  the 
same,"  suggested  Devlin.    "These  soldiers " 

"Oh,  we  wanted  them  sent  down, — I  assure 
you—" 

"They  tell  me,  however,  that  you  and  they  do 
not  quite  agree." 

Dumain  sadly  shook  his  head.  "They  resent 
suggestions,"  he  said;  "which,  as  they  are  young, 
is  natural.  But  their  idea  of  laisser-aller,  I  must 
say,  seems  short-sighted." 

"Surely  you  would  not  have  them  kill  these 
poor  misguided  people,"  objected  the  young 
man. 


300    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"No,  no;  I  do  not  wish  them  to  be  killed.  But 
— a — a  mere  proclamation  of  martial  law  hardly 
seems  likely  to  be  as  useful  as  a  very  gentle — 
rout — shall  I  say?  However,  they  tell  me  they 
have  decided  on  their  plans;  and  so  I  shall  inter- 
fere no  more.  Knowing  myself  non  grata,  I  am 
leaving  them  to  their  own  devices.,, 

Noting  a  slight  change  of  voice  in  the  last  half 
of  this  speech,  Devlin  glanced  behind  him,  and 
saw  Alfred  Stange  sauntering  towards  them. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  it  seems  to  me 
they  are  right." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  it,"  returned  Du- 
main  with  a  bow.    "Good  evening." 

He  touched  Pasco  on  the  arm;  and  the  wagon 
rolled  off,  as  Devlin  turned  to  meet  Stange. 

"Well  met  at  Phillipi!"  Alfie  greeted  him; "has 
the  diplomat  brought  you  over  to  his  views?" 

They  turned  back  towards  the  hotel  together. 

"No,  he  has  not,"  replied  Devlin  gravely;  "I 
think  his  views  are  barbarous.  And  I  am  very 
glad  you  are  not  going  to  change  your  plans  at 
all  for  him." 

They  halted  at  the  door. 

"Damn  dusty  country  this  is,"  remarked 
Stange,  putting  his  feet  on  the  bench  one  after 
the  other,  and  wiping  his  shoes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

"He  says  he  is  not  going  to  try  to  interfere 
with  you  any  more,"  continued  Devlin. 


DEVLIN    RETURNS  3°I 

Stange  raised  his  eyebrows  at  him.  "Look 
here,  my  young  friend/'  he  said,  "that  sounds 
suspicious  to  me.  Don't  be  offended,  but  I  think 
I  shall  continue  to  suspect  you." 


XXXIV 

A    SEARCH    FOR   A    LETTER 

IT  WAS  not  till  after  supper  that  Alfred 
Stange  started  off  on  his  errand.  He  left 
Houghteling  and  Devlin  sitting  side  by  side 
on  the  bench,  but  not  conversing  very  cordially. 

There  was  a  golden  moon  which  shone  so 
brightly  that  it  was  very  light.  All  was  quiet 
in  Antonito.  Somewhere  a  dog  howled  once. 
Stange  went  straight  to  the  large  yard  into  which 
the  kitchen  opened.  Through  the  window  he 
saw  Tecla,  Dumain,  and  the  dark  youth  at  sup- 
per, with  Fay  Grady  in  bright  green  waiting 
upon  them.  He  noticed  how  intently  she  stared 
with  her  big  gray  eyes  at  the  handsome  stranger, 
who  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  her  face.  The 
girl  looked  as  stupidly  placid  as  ever. 

He  went  as  near  the  window  as  he  dared. 
No  one  was  talking.  After  what  seemed  a  great 
while,  he  heard  Tecla  say  sharply:  "Take  that 
in  to  the  Father  and  see  if  he  wants  some." 

Without  waiting  for  more,  Stange  ran  to  the 
fence  he  had  climbed  the  night  before;  climbed 
it  now  in  the  opposite  direction;  and  was  inside 
the  open  front  door  before  Fay  reached  the 
door  of  the  study. 

"Oh!"  said  Fay,  startled;  and  nearly  dropped 
a  tea-cup. 

302 


A   SEARCH    FOR   A    LETTER  3°3 

"I  must  speak  to  you/' 

Fay  now  said,  "Oh,"  in  her  natural  drawl.  "I 
didn't  know  you  at  first." 

"When  can  I  speak  to  you?" 

"Now,  I  guess,  if  you  want  to." 

"No,  no,"  said  Alfie  hastily.  "She  might  come 
out  here.    After  supper;  can  I?" 

"Is  it  important?"  drawled  Fay. 

"Yes,  very.    Will  you  come  to  the  well  again?" 

"That  don't  give  no  time.  And  she  says  I 
need  too  much  water.  If  you  wait  about  an 
hour,  I  can  come  in  the  church." 

"How  shall  I  get  in?" 

"It's  always  open." 

"Well,  good-bye;  remember!"  and  he  slipped 
out  as  fast  as  he  had  slipped  in. 

He  walked  out  through  the  garden  and  to 
the  steps  of  the  church,  where  he  sat  in  a  dark 
corner,  slowly  smoking  cigarettes,  till  he  had 
smoked  six,  before  he  decided  it  was  time  for 
Fay  to  be  coming. 

She,  in  the  meantime,  had  given  Emanuele  his 
tea,  had  gone  back  and  finished  waiting  on  the 
others,  and  then  had  had  her  own  supper;  while 
Tecla  took  the  two  guests  up-stairs  to  show 
them  to  their  rooms.  After  that  Fay  had  washed 
the  dishes  as  quickly  as  possible;  and  had  just 
about  finished  when  Tecla  came  back  to  the 
kitchen,  having  seen  her  sick  brother  safe  in 
bed. 


3<H    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"Now,"  she  said  to  Fay,  "I've  been  so  driven 
all  day  I  haven't  had  time  to  teach  you  anything-. 
But  here  is  the  book  and  we'll  have  a  little  read- 
ing before  I  retire." 

Fay  slowly  dried  her  plump  hands  on  the  dish- 
towel,  without  saying  anything. 

"Hurry!    I'm  tired." 

"So  am  I,"  answered  Fay  serenely,  hanging 
up  her  apron;  "and  I'm  going  to  bed." 

She  marched  from  the  wrathful  presence  of 
her  mistress  with  what  would  have  been  dignity 
in  a  thinner  person, — if  she  hadn't  stumbled  up 
the  three  steps.  She  heard  her  mistress's  sharp 
voice  behind  her;  but  without  waiting  to  hear 
what  it  was  saying,  she  shut  the  door  and  went 
upstairs  to  her  own  room.  Holding  the  door 
ajar,  she  stood  there  in  the  dark,  till  in  a  few 
minutes  she  heard  Tecla  creep  up  the  stairs  and 
then  turn  a  handle;  after  that  all  was  still. 

Then  Fay  left  her  room  and  went  carefully 
down  the  stairs,  feeling  for  each  step.  Through 
the  study  she  passed  into  the  sacristy,  and  so  on 
into  the  chancel,  and  down  to  the  body  of  the 
dark  church. 

"Can  any  one  hear  us  in  here,  talking?"  asked 
a  voice  somewhat  muffled. 

"No,"  answered  Fay  in  her  natural  tone; 
"where  are  you?" 

"Here." 

With  her  hand  outstretched  in  front  of  her, 


A   SEARCH    FOR   A    LETTER  305 

Fay  cautiously  stepped  towards  the  voice  and 
the  red  glow  of  the  cigarette  she  could  see  in  the 
blackness.  A  hand  touched  hers.  There  came  a 
puff  of  smoke  in  her  face. 

"I  can't  see  you  at  all,"  she  said  in  her  monot 
onous  fashion. 

Alfie  laughed  close  to  her  ear. 

"I  sympathize  with  you.  But,"  he  went  on 
as  if  all  on  business  bent,  "I  must  tell  you  what 
we  want." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  no  one  again  anything  you 
say  or  do,"  she  protested;  "Father  Dumain  told 
me  I  dassn't." 

Her  voice,  though  low,  was'  clear  and  sweet. 

Alfie  felt  about  and  grasped  one  of  her  hands; 
then  took  out  his  cigarette,  put  his  arm  round 
her,  and  kissed  her — a  long,  long  kiss  in  the  dark 
ness. 

"We  want  you,"  he  said  when  he  finished,  "to 
get  the  letter  they  send  to  San  Rafael;  and  you 
mustn't  let  Dumain  know  about  this.  Can 
you?"  he  asked,  squeezing  her  warm  hand. 

"I  don't  know,  I  guess  I  could;"  she  didn't 
squeeze  back. 

"Are  you  sure  no  one  can  hear  us?" 

"They're  all  upstairs  in  bed;  and  anyway,  they 
couldn't." 

Alfie  was  beginning  to  distinguish  things  in 
the  dark.  He  drew  Fay  by  the  hand  into  one  of 
the  pews. 


306    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"Let's  sit  down.  Have  a  cigarette?"  he  asked, 
getting  another  for  himself. 

"What  would  I  do  with  it?"  asked  Fay. 

He  laughed  again.  "I  guess  you  don't  want 
one.  Then  you  will  get  it,"  he  went  on;  "and 
bring  it  to  us  without  any  one's  knowing  it — . 
Can  you  get  out  this  way  any  time?  Bring  it  to 
us  to  read;  and  then  you've  got  to  bring  it  back 
and  put  it  where  you  found  it  and  not  let  any  one 
at  all  know;  Dumain  or  anybody.  Do  you  think 
you  can  do  that?" 

"I  reckon  so,"  said  Fay.  "They've  wrote  it 
already.  I  seen  that  dark  fellow  put  one  in  his 
pocket,  and  I  can  go  to  his  room  now  and  get 
it  easy  enough,  if  he  is  asleep." 

"All  right,  I'll  wait  here.  But  can  you  get 
into  his  room?"  he  asked,  as  Fay  got  up  to  go. 

"They  ain't  no  key,"  said  Fay  simply. 

"Well,  I'll  wait  outside.  I  don't  like  it  in 
here." 

He  heard  her  walk  away  cautiously;  and  then 
he  went  out  on  the  steps. 

Fay  Grady  meanwhile  felt  her  way  into  the 
house  and  up  the  stairs.  Thinking  to  go  to 
the  room  where  Pasco  was,  she  stole  carefully 
to  that  occupied  by  Dumain.  The  door  was  out- 
lined in  light  and  a  ray  came  through  the  key- 
hole. Her  eyes  opened  wider  as  she  saw  Dumain 
stripped  to  the  skin,  lustily  doing  calisthenics. 
He  was  a  slim,  firmly-built  man,  an  evident  be- 


A   SEARCH    FOR   A    LETTER  307 

liever  in  muscular  Christianity.  She  watched 
him  touch  his  toes  forty  times  without  bending 
his  knees,  and  then  as  often  do  the  tiring 
gymnastic  feat  called  by  athletes  the  "squat." 

Then  she  rose,  gingerly  holding  her  skirts  to 
keep  them  from  rustling;  and  breathing  very 
softly,  tiptoed  to  the  other  spare  room.  Here 
she  took  the  precaution  of  listening  till  she  could 
hear  the  regular  breathing  of  sleep,  when  she 
gently  pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in.  There 
was  enough  light  to  distinguish  clothes  hanging 
on  a  hook.  She  felt  for  the  coat  and  took  it 
down.  The  letter  was  not  in  the  pocket  where 
she  had  seen  Pasco  put  it,  nor  in  any  of  the 
others.  She  hung  the  coat  up,  and  felt  in  the 
trousers  pockets.  No  letter  there;  only  some 
string,  a  piece  of  tobacco,  and  a  few  small  coins. 
One  of  these  fell  rattling  on  the  floor.  As  she 
stooped  for  it,  the  man  in  bed  waked  and  sat  up. 
Fay  stood  quite  still.  He  sat  quiet  for  a  moment, 
then  sighed;  and  lying  down,  turned  over  and 
went  to  sleep  again. 

Fay  crept  from  the  room. 

She  was  starting  down-stairs  again  when  she 
heard  the  door  knob  of  Dolores's  room  being 
violently  rattled.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated. 
Then  going  to  the  door  she  softly  unlocked  it. 
It  was  immediately  pulled  open  from  the  in- 
side. 


308    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"Sh,"  said  Fay  quietly;  "you'll  wake  her  up." 

She  could  see  the  other  girl's  figure  outlined 
against  the  moon-lighted  window. 

"I  knew  it  was  you,"  said  Dolores  in  a  low 
tone;  "I  saw  that  soldier  man  come  and  go  in  the 
church,  and  I  heard  you  coming  up." 

She  did  not  mention  that  she  had  also  seen, 
after  Stange  had  gone  into  the  church,  a  rider 
whom  she  recognized  as  Cristobal,  lurking  in  the 
shadows  round  about  and  spurring  his  horse 
swiftly  across  the  tracts  of  moonshine;  and  that 
she  had  cautiously  called  to  him,  but  without 
making  him  hear. 

"I  want  to  go  down  and  speak  to  that  soldier," 
she  said,  scarcely  above  her  breath. 

"I  reckon  you  can  go  down  if  you  want  to," 
said  Fay.    "She's  asleep,  and  I  won't  never  tell." 

"I'm  not  scared  of  her,"  returned  Dolores  de- 
fiantly; "but  I  don't  know  the  way  out  in  the 
dark.    All  those  doors  are  locked." 

"No,  they  ain't,"  returned  Fay;  "not  goin' 
into  the  church." 

"Is  he  in  the  church?" 

"No,  he's  on  the  steps.  He  said  he  didn't  like 
it  in  there." 

"Bring  him  in  there.  I  must  see  him  in  there. 
I  must  see  him." 

"I  guess  you  can  go  outside  an'  see  him,  as 
good  as  I  can,"  said  Fay,  moving  on. 

Dolores  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder,  which 


A   SEARCH    FOR   A   LETTER  309 

Fay  twisted  off.  "No,  no!  I  must  see  him  in 
there.    I  can't  go  out.    Cristobal — " 

"Well,  I  won't  tell  him  to  come  in,"  replied 
Fay,  moving  off. 

"Why  not?    You're  jealous.    You  love  him.'* 

"I  do  not,"  said  Fay  firmly. 

"Why  won't  you,  then?" 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should,"  said  Fay. 

They  were  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  now,  and 
Fay  started  down.  Again  Dolores  laid  hold  of  her 
so  tightly  that  this  time  she  could  not  escape. 

"I'll  tell  the  man  you  love — the  Mormon — if 
you  don't,"  she  said  tragically. 

Fay  laughed  inwardly.  "You  don't  know 
where  to  find  him,  and  I  don't  care  anyhow." 

"I'll  tell  Senorita,— I'll  tell  her  now,— I'll 
wake  her — I'll  scream." 

"Come  on,"  said  Fay,  a  trifle  faster  than  usual, 
"I'll  bring  him  in." 

They  went  down  noiselessly  together.  Telling 
Dolores  to  wait,  Fay  went  out  through  the 
church.  It  was  warmer  outside.  She  smelled 
the  smoke  from  Stange's  cigarette;  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  dark  church  steps. 

"Have  you  got  it?"  he  said. 

"No,"  answered  Fay. 

"Damn  it!    Why  not?" 

"It  wasn't  in  his  pockets,  any  of  them," 

"Where  was  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 


310    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"A  lot  of  good  you  are!" 

He  got  up  sullenly  and  started  off  without  an- 
other word. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  called  after  him. 

Alfie  hesitated.  Then  he  walked  on  again  a 
step  or  two.  Then  he  stopped.  Fay  came  down 
after  him. 

"There's  another  girl  in  there,"  she  said,  "and 
she  wants  to  see  you." 

"What  does  she  want  to  see  me  about?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  told  her  I'd  tell  you.  She's 
an  Indian  girl." 

"The  hell  you  say!"  he  exclaimed  curtly;  "is 
she  a  Penitente?" 

"No,  she  said  she  wasn't.  But  she's  been  up 
there.  She's  an  awful  girl;  she  was  screaming 
almost  all  day." 

"Well,  I  suppose  my  duty  urges  me  to  inter- 
view even  this  virago,"  said  Alfie,  professing  to 
speak  dejectedly.    "Trot  her  out." 

"She  won't  come  out,"  replied  Fay;  "she's 
waiting  for  you  inside." 

"Ah,  I'm  sick  of  church!    But  come  on." 

They  went  into  the  church;  and  a  dark  figure 
moved  through  the  darkness  toward  them. 

"This  is  the  Indian  girl,"  announced  Fay,  and 
then  moved  ponderously  away  in  the  gloom. 

Though  Stange  could  not  see  the  instant  look 
of  hatred  that  Dolores  flung  after  her  at  this,  he 
heard  her  mutter  "Pig! — I  spit  on  you,  heretic." 


A  SEARCH    FOR   A    LETTER  3** 

Then  with  a  voice  soft  through  her  rage,  she 
turned  to  him.  "No,  no,  Sefior;  I  am  not  Indian; 
I  am  Spanish, — Castilian!" 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Stange. 

After  rolling  a  cigarette  between  his  two 
hands,  he  struck  a  match.  As  the  bold  little  flame 
flared  up,  he  caught  sight  for  a  moment  of  the 
great  altar,  solemn  in  the  dusk,  with  its  crucifix 
above  it.  With  a  sudden  impulse  he  dropped 
the  match  and  set  his  heel  upon  it. 

"Give  me  one,  too,"  said  Dolores  softly,  touch- 
ing his  hand  with  hers. 

"No,  I  won't,"  he  answered  curtly;  "it  isn't 
decent  to  smoke  in  here." 

He  drew  his  hand  away  from  her. 

"Are  you  a  Penitente?"  he  asked. 

"No,  no!  I  am  not."  There  was  a  thrill  of 
hate  in  her  deep  voice.    "I  despise  them." 

Stange  struck  another  match,  and  in  its  light 
looked  curiously  on  her  face. 

"I  like  to  see  whom  I'm  talking  to,"  he  ex- 
plained, dropping  the  match  as  it  burnt  him. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  pretty?"  she  asked  insinu- 
atingly, moving  closer  to  him. 

"Pretty  enough,"  replied  Stange  cavalierly, 
edging  away. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  she  said  softly;  "I  see  why  you 
don't  like  me." 

"I  do  like  you  well  enough.  T  don't  know 
you,"  answered  Stange,  a  trifle  uncomfortable. 


312    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"Well  enough,"  she  repeated  with  feeling,  and 
laid  one  soothing  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Stange  shook  it  off.    "Come,  none  of  that." 

"I  know,"  she  persisted  coaxingly,  "you  are  in 
love  with  the  little  fat  girl." 

He  answered  with  a  hollow  laugh,  which  he 
followed  up  rather  hotly:  "If  I  were,  it  doesn't 
concern  you." 

Dolores  sighed  feelingly. 

"I — perhaps  I  am  in  love — "  she  hinted. 

"I  dare  say  you  are, — dozens  of  times.  You 
seem  susceptible." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Come,  now;  for  God's  sake,  what  do  you 
want?    I  can't  stay  here  forever." 

"I  wanted  you  to  do  something  for  me,"  said 
Dolores  petulantly. 

"Well;  out  with  it." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  the  Penitentes? 
Kill  them?" 

"No,  we're  not.  Not  going  to  kill  one  of 
them." 

"Oh!  I  thought  you  would,"  said  Dolores,  dis- 
appointed. 

"Sorry  we  can't  oblige  you.  Any  one  you'd 
specially  like  killed?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  girl  eagerly;  "will  you? 
She's  wicked,  wicked!    She's  a  murderer." 

"She  is,  indeed?  Who  is  she?  Whom  did 
she  murder?" 


A   SEARCH    FOR  A   LETTER  313 

"She  is  murdering*  him,"  pursued  Dolores; 
"Paez,  my  lover.  She  prayed  to  the  Saints.  She 
— she  did  something? — she  made  them  choose, 
him.  He  goes  round  with  the  big  cross  on  him, 
and  it's  crushing  him  to  death;  and  it's  her  fault." 

"I  see,"  said  Alfie;  "we're  going  to  end  that 
part.  But  you  say  he's  your  lover.  Isn't  there 
a  little  jealousy  mixed  in  this?" 

"No,  no!  He  loved  me.  He  wouldn't  look 
at  her.  She  was  jealous.  She  made  them  do  it. 
She  is  a  murderer.  Will  you  kill  her?"  Again 
she  laid  an  eager  hand  on  his  arm. 

"My  dear  girl,  what  you  want  is  a  policeman. 
Soldiers  don't  go  round  hunting  down  crimes." 

Dolores  paused;  then  said  inquiringly,  "No? 
Don't  they?" 

Alfie  shook  his  head  in  the  dark. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  could  do  it,"  sighed  Do- 
lores. 

"My  dear  girl,  I'll  do  anything  I  can  for  you— 
in  reason.  Don't  expect  me  to  slay  your  per- 
gonal enemies,  though.    What  is  her  name?" 

"Fanita,"  said  Dolores  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Very  well.  I'll  remember.  Now  I  think  you 
had  better  go  to  bed.  You're  getting  nervous." 
He  made  a  start  towards  the  door. 

Once  more  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Here!  Quit  that,  will  you?"  he  exclaimed, 
shaking  her  off,  and  moving  faster. 


314    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Dolores  followed  close  behind  him  out  on  to 
the  steps. 

"Promise,"  urged  Dolores.  "Promise,  will 
you?" 

"Promise  what?"  he  asked,  exasperated. 

"If  you  do>  anything  to  them,  do  it  to  her 
too."   ' 

As  they  came  out  Stange  had  noticed  the  fig- 
ure of  a  man,  who  was  strolling  past  the  church. 
At  the  sound  of  their  speaking  he  had  halted; 
and  now  a  new  voice,  that  of  Devlin,  broke  in  on 
them. 

"Dolores!" 

The  girl  drew  back  a  little. 

"Good  night,"  said  Stange  hurriedly,  seizing 
his  opportunity.  "Ill  leave  you  with  your 
friend."  As  he  passed  Devlin,  he  said  to  him, 
"Wish  you  a  pleasant  scene.  I  guess  it's  safe, — 
you  couldn't  plot  with  her  on  the  Penitentes' 
side;  but  be  careful  of  your  heart." 

He  turned  and  walked  quickly  back  to  the 
hotel.  The  moon  was  setting,  and  the  air  began 
to  grow  a  little  damper  and  cooler. 

He  found  Houghteling  sitting  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  smoking  a  pipe. 

"Hello,  Dan,"  said  Stange.  "The  little  beast 
didn't  get  it." 

"Did  she  peach?" 

"No,  she  didn't  peach;  but  she  didn't  get  the 
letter.      Women     are    useless    creatures,     any- 


A   SEARCH    FOR   A   LETTER  3*5 

way.     It's  been  written.     'Wrote/  as  she  said." 

"We'll  have  to  have  it,"  said  the  other.  "If 
necessary  I'll  have  the  messenger  seized  as  he 
takes  it  back." 

"What's  the  extra  guard  for?"  asked  Stange, 
sitting  down  by  him. 

"Those  Mormons  are  on  my  mind." 

"Ho!"  said  Stange,  "I  bet  they've  forgotten 
us.    'Quick  to  wrath — ',  you  know." 

"This  quarrel  was  about  a  woman,"  said 
Houghteling  gravely. 

"So  it  was,  clever  lad!  Well,  I  never  expect 
to  see  them  again. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Houghteling. 

"By  the  way,"  Alfie  began,  after  a  pause; 
"there  is  another  girl  there,  too.  I  don't  like 
her." 

"Who  is  she?"  Houghteling  asked. 

"Kind  of  a  Penitente  reconcentrada,  I  should 
say.  Hates  'em  like  sin — more  than  sin,  proba- 
bly.   Regular  tragedy  actress." 

"Why  didn't  you  get  her  to  get  the  letter." 

"No,  sir!  Give  me  a  slow,  quiet  girl  for  a 
job  like  that.     Fay's  clumsy,  but — " 

"She  didn't  get  it." 

"She  didn't  let  anybody  in  that  she  was  trying 
to.  This  neurotic  damsel  might  have  got  into 
Dumain's  room  and  had  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
but  I  swear  before  she  brought  it  out,  I  believe 


316    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

she'd  have  waited  and  waked  him  up  so  as  to  use 
her  wiles  to  get  him  to  kiss  her." 

"Did  she  get  you  to?" 

"She  did  not!  When  a  girl  is  too  anxious  to 
have  a  kiss  from  yours  truly,  she  generally  gets 
thrown  down.  I  tell  you  those!  I  may  be  old- 
fashioned,  but  I  think  it's  a  prerogative  of  the 
gentleman  to  make  the  advances." 

It  was  some  little  while  after  this  when  Stange 
remarked:  "By  the  way,  Dan,  it  seems  to  me 
you're  careless  about  our  suspicious  friend,  Dev- 
lin." 

"He's  up  in  his  room,"  said  Houghteling. 

"Oh,  is  he?  Then  his  double's  down  there  by 
the  church  flirting  with  that  warm-hearted  girl." 

Houghteling  jumped  up  and  looked  toward 
the  second-story  windows.  "There's  a  light  in 
his  room.  He  went  up  there  while  I  was  seeing 
about  the  guard." 

"I  repeat  my  last  remark,"  said  Alfie,  care- 
lessly.    "He  gave  you  the  slip." 

"Then  you  better  go  back  and  see  what  he's 
doing." 

"Oh,  hell,  Dan!  I'm  tired.  I've  been  run- 
ning your  errands  all  day  long." 

While  Stange  leaned  back  comfortably  against 
the  house-front,  Houghteling  tacitly  started 
down  the  road.  In  a  moment  Stange  was  after 
him,  and  flinging  both  arms  about  his  Captain 


A   SEARCH   FOR  A   LETTER  317 

almost  had  pulled  him  backward    off    his  feet. 
"Go  on  home!"  he  said  to  him  with  mock 
sternness.    "Of  course  I'll  go." 

Fay,  on  leaving  the  church,  went  slowly  up 
stairs,  retracing  her  way  through  the  darkness. 

The  light  still  shone  from  Dumain's  room. 
With  an  instinctive  impulse  she  picked  her  way 
there  again,  holding  her  breath  and  feeling 
along  the  wall.  She  was  a  little  giddy  from  so 
much  walking  in  the  dark.  As  before,  she  kneeled 
and  looked  in.  Dumain,  in  a  white  night-gown, 
sat  by  his  table  writing.  By  looking  intently  she 
could  see  that  there  was  a  heavy  black  mono- 
gram on  one  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  twice  held 
up  under  the  lamp,  and  read  carefully.  He  shook 
his  head  in  doubt.  Then  he  set  to  work  writing. 
At  last  she  saw  him  blot  his  writing,  tear  the 
monogram  sheet  in  two,  fold  another  one  and 
put  it  into  an  envelope,  and  then  get  up  and  put 
the  envelope  and  the  torn  letter,  as  she  could  just 
see  by  holding  her  head  very  low,  into  the  pocket 
of  a  coat  hanging  near  the  door. 

As  soon  as  she  had  seen  this,  Fay  softly  crept 
to  her  own  room;  where  she  undressed  in  the 
dark  and  was  very  soon  asleep. 


XXXV 

A  DESPERATE  LOVER 

\  FTER  Dolores  had  scrutinized  Devlin  from 
/  \  her  dark  corner  of  the  church  steps  she 
-^      ■*■    knew  him,  and  with  her  finest  mincing  air 
she  came  down  the  steps  into  the  fading  moon- 
light. 

"How  are  you,  Dolores/'  he  began;  "what  are 
you  doing  here?  Do  you  remember  me?  I  re- 
cognized your  voice.  What  has  become  of  your 
lover,  Cristobal,  wasn't  it?  Have  you  married 
him?" 

"No,"  said  Dolores;  and  added  discreetly, 
"what  are  you  doing  here?  You  haven't  told 
any  one  about — about  him?    Cristobal?" 

"No,  indeed.  He's  safe,  for  me.  I  came  down 
here  to  see  what  they're  going  to  do  about  the 
Penitentes." 

"I  wish  they  would  kill  them!"  cried  Dolores. 

"Oh,  no!  don't  say  that.  What  have  they  done 
to  you?" 

"I  was  up  there,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head 
ominously.  "They  stole  my  lover  from  me. 
They  are  going  to  crucify  him.  Only,  I  won't 
let  them.     The  soldiers  won't  let  them." 

"Your  lover,"  he  repeated;  "Cristobal?" 

"No,  not  him."  Dolores  shot  a  flashing  glance 

318 


A  DESPERATE  LOVER  3ia- 

over  his  shoulder,  and  he  turned  to  see  what  she 
saw.  But  all  he  found  was  the  yellowish  moon 
caught  in  the  tree-tops. 

"He  follows  me  around,"  said  Dolores,  dis- 
dainfully, folding  her  bare  arms. 

"I  thought  you  promised  to  marry  him/' 

She  gave  him  a  strange,  defiant  look,  and 
tossed  her  head.  'The  Padre  told  me  not  to.  I 
am  a  good  Catholic.    He  is  a  murderer." 

Once  more  she  peered  over  his  shoulder,  and 
then  called,  "Cristobal!     Come  here." 

Devlin,  turning  to  look  again,  made  out  a 
horse  and  rider  lurking  in  the  shadow. 

"Come,"  repeated  the  girl. 

Slowly  the  horse  approached  them. 

"Oh,  come  on,"  she  called  tauntingly;  "don't 
be  a  coward.  He  won't  hurt  you;  he's  not  a 
soldier." 

The  horseman  drew  hesitatingly  nearer.  Dev- 
lin would  not  have  known  him.  Cristobal  had 
let  his  black  beard  grow,  and  it  covered  half  his 
face.  Over  his  gray  store  trousers  he  wore  a 
pair  of  shaps. 

"Don't  be  scared,"  the  girl  continued  her 
mocking  encouragement.  "The  moon  is  gone. 
It's  dark  now.    Put  away  your  gun." 

It  was  not  yet  so  dark  but  that  they  caught 
the  shimmer  of  the  revolver  in  his  hand. 

"The  soldiers!"  Cristobal  exclaimed  in  Span- 
ish, edging  away  from  them  on  his  horse 


320    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

She  answered  him  in  English.  "There  ain't 
any  here  now ;  and  anyway  they  won't  hurt  you ; 
they  don't  go  for  murderers.    They  told  me  so." 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Cristobal  vehemently, 
always  in  Spanish.  "Who  is  he?"  and  he  pointed 
to  Devlin. 

"You  remember,"  she  replied;  "he's  the  man 
who  loaned  you  his  horse  the  day  you  murdered 
Anunciato." 

She  had  not  finished  speaking  when  Cristobal, 
digging  his  spurs  into  his  horse,  sprang  away 
from  them. 

"Oh,  come  back,"  called  the  girl  impatiently; 
"he  hasn't  told." 

A  little  beyond  them  in  the  deeper  shadow  he 
drew  in  his  horse,  but  hesitated. 

"I  won't  hurt  you,"  Devlin  assured  him. 

Again  he  turned  the  horse  and  came  towards 
them  cautiously. 

"Put  up  your  pistol,  or  I  won't  talk  to  you," 
commanded  Dolores. 

Silently  he  obeyed  her. 

"Now,"  she  said,  laying  one  hand  on  his  bridle, 
"what  have  you  come  for,  anyway?" 

Cristobal  began  blankly  in  Spanish. 

"Speak  English,"  she  bade  him,  with  a  stamp 
of  her  foot. 

"Lola!    You  told  me  to  come,"  he  stammered. 

At  this  Dolores  burst  into  laughter, — a  long, 


A  DESPERATE  LOVER  32* 

ringing  peal.  When  she  hesitated  for  breath, 
she  began  again. 

Cristobal  dismounted,  and  seizing  her  by  the 
two  hands,  said:  "You  will  come  this  time,  Lola: 
you  must.'' 

Stopping  short  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter, 
she  answered:  "I  will  not,  if  I  don't  want  to." 

"This  is  his  fault,"  muttered  Cristobal  angrily, 
nodding  his  head  toward  Devlin. 

"Why,  I  haven't  seen  her  till  now." 

"It  is  not,"  said  Dolores.  "I  don't  care  about 
him.     Let  me  go." 

She  struggled,  but  the  man  still  held  her  tight- 
ly by  the  hands. 

"Then  you  have  a  lover  there!  Those  sol- 
diers," he  insisted,  falling  into  Spanish  again. 

She  pulled  more  fiercely  to  get  from  him, 
speaking  brokenly  as  she  twisted  with  nervous 
anger  to  break  away.  "How  can  I  help  it — who 
loves  me.     Let  me — go!     I — hate  you!" 

She  began  to  sob  with  anger;  she  stamped  on 
his  foot. 

"You  told  me  to  come,"  he  gasped,  "to  come 
and  get  you."  He  was  panting  as  hard  as 
Dolores. 

As  he  dragged  her  toward  his  horse,  she 
wailed,  "Let  me  go!"  and  suddenly  spat  at  him. 

Devlin  stepped  forward. 

"Let  her  go,"  he  said  peremptorily. 

"Let  me  go!"  shrieked  the  girl  passionately. 


322    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Dropping  her  hands,  Cristobal  seized  his  re- 
volver. 

Dolores  was  rubbing  her  wrists.  "You  have 
hurt  me,"  she  panted;  "I  hate  you."  Then  see- 
ing his  stealthy  movement:  "Be  careful.  Here 
comes  one  of  the  soldiers!" 

Sure  enough,  in  the  momentary  pause  they 
made  at  this,  they  could  hear  some  one  coming 
whistling  along  the  road;  and  as  they  glanced 
to  see,  Dolores  and  Devlin  recognized  Alfred 
Stange  in  the  half  darkness. 

Cristobal's  hesitation  was  but  for  an  instant. 

"It  is  your  lover,"  he  said  in  a  tone  low  with 
fury.    "I  will  kill  him." 

"There  are  fifty  more,"  cried  Dolores,  spring- 
ing toward  him.  "They  will  catch  you  if  you 
shoot.    They  will  hang  you.     Hurry.     Go!" 

He  faltered.  Then  he  turned  and  hastily 
mounted;  and  while  he  called  back  his  farewell 
tremulous  with  wrath,  "I'll  show  them.  You'll 
see,"  his  horse  had  sprung  away. 

They  heard  him  galloping  off,  farther  and 
farther. 

"Aha!  here  you  are!"  came  the  cheery  voice 
of  Stange.  "Well,  well!  What  a  time  you've 
been  having.    Your  friend  seems  excited." 

He  could  hear  the  girl  still  panting  from  the 
shock  of  the  scene  she  had  been  through. 

"Anything  wrong?"   Alfie  continued. 

"No,  I  don't  think  anything  is  just  at  present/' 


A  DESPERATE  LOVER  323 

replied  Devlin,  in  a  voice   rather   constrained. 

Dolores  turned  on  her  heel  and  started  toward 
the  church. 

"Dolores,  wait  a  minute,"  Devlin  called  after 
her. 

"The  Captain  just  sent  me  down  to  see  that 
you  weren't  plotting  against  us,"  explained 
Stange  to  him.  "That  wasn't  old  Dumain  on 
the  fiery  charger?" 

"No,  no!  I  haven't  seen  him  this  evening. 
That  was  some  affair  of  this  foolish  girl's." 

"Gad!  how  many  lovers  has  she?"  asked 
Stange;  "and  always  room  for  one  more!  Well, 
if  you — a — when  you've  bidden  her  good-night 
just  stroll  back  our  way,  will  you?  Thanks. 
Sorry  to  disturb  you." 

As  Stange  left  him,  Devlin  hurried  after  the 
girl. 

"Dolores,"  he  said  earnestly,  overtaking  her 
at  the  door  of  the  church.  "You  must  be  careful. 
He  might  kill  you.  Don't  play  with  a  man  that 
way.    He " 

"Ah,  he  can't  do  anything,"  replied  Dolores 
scornfully.  "Not  that."  With  a  snap  of  her 
fingers,  she  disappeared  into  the  church. 

To  Houghteling,  who  still  sat  on  the  bench 
in  front  of  the  hotel,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the 
starlight,  Stange  returned  with  the  assurance, 


324    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"He's  all  right.  The  game  he  was  in  this  time 
wasn't  war.     He's  coming  right  along." 

"What  were  they  doing?"  asked  the  other. 
"They  made  a  ghastly  noise.  Was  that  your 
friend,  Miss  Grady?" 

"No,  that  was  the  wild  girl.  I  didn't  quite 
understand  the  game.  Recriminations  of  a  rancid 
love  affair,  I  think.  She  seems  to  have  a  good 
manv." 


XXXVI 

HE   PLOTS  WITH   WIVVERS 

CRAZED  with  his  burning  passion  and  this 
bitter  ending  to  the  love  he  had  cher- 
ished so  desperately,  and  with  the  blind 
rage  he  could  not  spill  out  spoiling  within  him 
till  it  became  a  poisonous,  cursed  thing,  Cris- 
tobal galloped  on  wildly,  not  knowing  what  road 
he  was  taking.  Grinding  his  teeth  and  cursing 
inwardly,  he  would  plunge  his  spurs  into  the 
horse,  which,  already  reeking  with  sweat,  tore  on 
madly. 

The  moon  had  set;  but  the  vivid  congregation 
of  stars  shed  a  pallid  light  upon  the  level  face 
of  the  Valley.  Against  the  black  sky  there  was  a 
tremendous  shape  of  more  utter  black,  directly 
in  front  of  the  horse  and  rider, — the  sleepless 
shape  of  Mount  Blanca.  Cristobal  in  his  ecstacy 
of  anger,  never  noticed  this  voiceless  sign;  and 
the  fagged  horse,  forced  to  its  final  efforts,  inter- 
minably galloping,  galloping  on  with  its  eyes 
on  the  endless  road,  never  raised  them  to  the 
mountain.  But  a  sign  it  was  that  their  mad  way 
lay  towards  the  northwest,  towards  the  village 
of  the  Saints. 

As  they  tore  along  through  the  huge,  arid 
night  with  its  oppressive  silence,  scenes  arose  in 

325 


326    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Cristobal's  brain;  each  clear  and  distinct,  but 
lasting  only  an  instant,  and  each  chasing  the 
other,  as  the  lights  of  a  railway  train  flash  in 
succession  through  the  darkness.  First  was  the 
memory  of  the  little  adobe  house  of  Dolores. 
The  shadow  of  its  veranda  lay  clean  and  black 
on  the  morning  sunlight.  Anunciato,  whom  he 
riad  murdered,  sat  by  him  on  the  bench.  From 
-within  came  the  droning  of  the  Padre  and  the 
querulous  voice  of  the  dying  woman.  Dolores 
flirting  a  brilliant  pictured  fan,  and  with  a  lace 
mantilla  on  her  pretty  head,  strutted,  in  her  bare 
feet,  before  them. 

Next  he  saw  himself  riding  in  the  night, — 
riding  just  as  he  now  rode  beneath  the  starlight. 
He  shivered,  as  it  flashed  through  him  that  once, 
some  time,  he  had  been  riding  exactly  thus  be- 
fore. 

Then  he  was  inside  the  house,  digging  in  the 
darkness.  The  little  padre,  kneeling  before  a 
couple  of  lighted  candles,  prayed  droningly.  He 
'himself  dug  in  the  dark;  he  heard  the  sand  fall 
lisping  from  his  spade:  he  shrank  against  the 
wall  as  the  edge  struck  the  body  of  Anunciato, 
whom  he  had  murdered.  Suddenly  he  was  on 
the  hill-slope  that  leads  to  San  Rafael.  He  was 
waiting  there  in  strange  garments,  and  Dolores 
came  out  from  a  house  to  talk  to  him, — Dolores 
with  her  voice  changed  and  cold,  but  the  same 
pretty  Dolores.    And  he  was  about  to  take  her 


HE   PLOTS  WITH   WIVVERS  327 

away  with  him  on  his  horse ;  and  then  came  the 
little  Padre  through  the  night,  and  drove  him 
away.  And  he  cursed  the  little  Padre  and  the 
Penitentes. 

And  he  remembered  two  laughing  soldiers, 
and  a  strange  man  who  spoke  Spanish  and  who 
promised  to  send  soldiers  to  kill  the  Penitentes 
and  the  Padre. 

At  this  his  curses  broke  out  again.  The  sol- 
diers! The  soldiers  had  come.  But  before  that 
Dolores  had  left  the  Penitentes,  and  she  had  sent 
for  him  to  come  and  get  her.  But  her  head  had 
been  turned  by  the  soldiers. 

All  at  once,  he  was  startled  by  a  loud  voice 
in  front  of  him,  crying  some  peremptory  word. 
He  drew  up  his  horse  almost  on  its  haunches. 
It  stumbled  and  nearly  fell;  and  then  stood  trem- 
bling under  him.  Cristobal  looked  about  him. 
Broad  fields  of  grain  swept  away  on  either  hand, 
under  the  starlight.  Before  him  were  the  dark 
hushed  houses  of  a  village.  The  man  who  had 
halted  him  was  a  great  burly  creature,  with  a 
rifle. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded.  "I  thought 
you  were  one  of  them  soldiers.  What  do  you 
want  here?" 

"I  am  Cristobal." 

"What  do  you  want  here?    Are  you  a  Saint?" 

Cristobal  shook  his  head  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross 


3^8    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Another  tremendous  creature  appeared,  asking 
the  first  one  who  this  was. 

"Spy,  I  believe,"  said  the  first,  "from  them 
soldiers.    Better  arrest  him,  Naphtali." 

"Spies  don't  come  riding  right  into  you 
lickety-split,"  said  Wiwers  in  his  rough  voice; 
"and  anyway  I  told  you  I  don't  believe  them 
soldiers  has  come  to  interfere  with  us.  I  guess 
they're  after  the  Penitentes  all  right/' 

Cristobal's  sense  was  returning.  "Yes,"  he 
put  in  eagerly.  "They  go  for  the  Penitentes.  I 
was  there.    I  know." 

"You  was  there?"  repeated  the  first  Mormon 
Suspiciously. 

"So  was  we  there,  Gideon,"  said  Wiwers. 

"They  got  my  sweetheart,"  explained  Cris- 
tobal.   "I  hate  them." 

"Who  is  your  sweetheart?"  demanded  Wiv- 
vers,  blackly. 

"Dolores.    They  stole  her.     I  will  kill  them." 

"I'd  like  to  help  you,"  said  Wiwers  grimly. 

Cristobal  leaned  forward  eagerly  from  his 
horse.  "Yes;  we  will  all  go  and  kill  them."  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  Wiwers. 

"That  ain't  a  bad  idea,"  mused  Wiwers.  "We 
can  meet  them  up  there  at  San  Rafael  and  inter- 
fere with  them  a  little.  They  wanted  us  to  help 
'em  so  bad.  I  say  we  better  had.  You  come 
along,"  he  said  to  Cristobal,  "and  we'll  all  talk 
this  over." 


HE   PLOTS   WITH    WIVVERS  329 

So  Cristobal,  dismounting  and  leading  his 
horse,  went  with  Wivvers  to  his  house.  And 
there  in  the  bleak  parlor  their  plans  were  laid  in 
the  gray  of  morning. 

About  noon  the  next  day  Cristobal  awoke, 
and  when  he  remembered  where  he  was  his  blood 
boiled  anew  at  the  thought  of  revenge.  He  pro- 
posed to  Wivvers  that  he  should  go  over  to  Las 
Animas  county  to  get  his  own  rifle.  So  strong 
was  his  refusal  to  use  any  one  else's  that  some  of 
the  Mormons  again  suspected  him  as  a  spy.  But 
Wivvers,  who  somehow  felt  assured  by  Cristo- 
bal's strenuous  intensity,  gruffly  bade  him  go, 
and  told  him  where  to  meet  them  the  next  morn- 
ing. Nevertheless,  they  watched  him  ride  off,  in 
the  direction  indeed  of  Las  Animas,  and  as  long 
as  any  one  strained  his  eyes  over  the  glaring  yel- 
low distance  the  way  of  the  horseman  was  seen 
to  hold  the  same. 

As  for  Cristobal,  he  trotted  along  now  in  the 
blaze  of  day  with  different  visions  from  those  of 
the  night  before.  The  favorite  one  was  of  blue- 
coated  soldiers  lying  in  their  blood,  and  the  little 
Padre  Maria  de  Jesus  also  weltering  alongside. 
And  somehow  Dolores,  with  her  pretty  face,  was 
always  running  towards  him  with  outstretched 
arms. 

In  his  accustomed  haunts  he  met  with  one  of 
his  new  comrades,  and  the  two,  as  evening  fell, 


330    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

sat  over  their  whisky  in  a  dinghy  bar.  Cristobal 
waxed  verbose  as  to  his  contemplated  deeds  of 
slaughter.  As  the  fumes  of  their  glasses  spread 
thicker,  his  dark  Spanish  eyes  and  his  unbridled 
voice  grew  more  fiery.  The  evening  passed  into 
midnight,  filled  writh  the  sound  of  his  hatred  and 
his  boasting. 

At  the  dawn  the  two  lay  still  in  a  drunken 
torpor;  and  the  day  of  vengeance  came  and  went 
before  their  brains  returned. 


XXXVII 

FEEDING   THE    HUNGRY 

ONE  evening,  after  a  monotonous,  smoky 
meeting,  when  about  twenty  Penitentes 
sat  huddled  up  on  the  floor  praying  and 
droning  responses  in  the  house  of  Oestocris; 
when  finally  the  spirit  had  moved  some  one  to 
rise  tacitly,  and  after  bowing  to  the  images  to  go 
out,  and  the  others  had  followed  dreamily, — the 
old  mother  put  her  skinny  hand  on  the  arm  of 
Fanita.  The  girl,  falling  into  an  inevitably  grace- 
ful attitude,  waited  till  everyone  else  had  filed 
out. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  Neetasta,"  began 
the  old  crone,  mysteriously  dropping  her  harsh 
voice. 

After  a  sharp  look  into  the  girl's  face,  she 
lowered  her  eagle  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl. 

Oestocris  pointed  one  thin  arm.  "Him.  Out 
there.     Paez,"  she  said. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"You  love  him,  Neetasta;  don't  you?"  be- 
sought the  mother. 

With  eyes  large  and  wondering,  Fanita  vague- 
ly nodded. 

"You  were  his  sweetheart.     He  always  loved 

331 


332    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

you.     He  never  would  have  given  you  up,  ex- 
cept for  the  love  of  God." 

The  corners  of  Fanita's  mouth  twitched  just  a 
little. 

"You, — you  want  him  to  succeed,"  pleaded 
the  mother. 

"Oh,  Oestocris!"  The  girl's  voice  was  full  of 
feeling,  and  she  clasped  her  hands. 

"Ah,"  smiled  the  old  woman  sadly,  shaking 
her  head.  "That  will  be  a  proud  day  for  us,  the 
two  he  cared  for  most.  You  will  be  Saint  Ve- 
ronica and  I  the  Blessed  Virgin."  The  light  went 
out  of  her  eyes  and  she  spoke  worriedly  again: 
"But  they  don't  feed  him  enough  out  there." 

"Why,  the  Father "  began  Fanita. 

"He  is  starving.  I  can  see  it.  I  am  his  mother. 
I  understand  those  eyes  of  his.  Oh,  he  will  die 
before  the  day,  if  we  don't  do  something,"  she 
pleaded  in  despair. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  silently. 

"It  is  nearly  dark,"  said  Oestocris,  peering  out 
into  the  dusk. 

She  turned  to  her  wooden  chest,  and  lighted 
the  ill-smelling  lamp  atop  of  it. 

"Come  here,"  she  whispered  hoarsely. 

Fanita  slowly  approached. 

"Wait!"  Oestocris  turned  and  hobbled  ner- 
vously from  the  room.  In  a  moment  she  came 
shuffling  in  again,  bending  over  a  smoking 
crockery  bowl. 


FEEDING   THE   HUNGRY  333 

"Here!"  She  shoved  it  towards  the  girl.  "You 
take  this  to  him." 

Fanita  drew  back.  "But  the  Father  forbade 
anybody  to  feed  him." 

"Ha?"  queried  the  old  creature.  "What! 
Would  you  rather  have  him  die  before  San 
Rafael's  Day?"  she  demanded. 

"Why  don't  you  take  it  to  him  yourself,  then?" 

"Me?  I'm  scared,"  confided  Oestocris  with  a 
sly  smile.  "I'm  his  mother,  and  they'd  say — 
You  know.  But  you're  his  sweetheart  and 
they'd  forgive  you.  Anyway,  nobody'll  catch 
you." 

She  chuckled  and  smelled  the  steam  from  the 
bowl. 

"Besides,  it's  meat,"  objected  the  girl,  sniffing. 

"No,  no,"  cried  Oestocris.  "Not  a  bit.  It's 
Lenten  food.  Soup  and  potatoes.  Just  what  I 
eat.  I'm  fasting,  you  know.  Here,  take  it  to 
him."    She  put  the  bowl  into  Fanita's  hands. 

"I  don't  like  to,"  said  Fanita,  taking  it. 

"Neetasta,"  said  the  old  mother  reproachfully, 
"would  you  have  him  lose  the  glory  of  it?  After 
we've  prayed  for  it  so  much  and  the  Blessed 
Virgin  sent  it  to  us.  Don't  you  want  to  be  Saint 
Veronica,  and  wipe  his  face?  Oh,  don't  you  want 
him  to  die  on  the  cross  and  go  right  straight  to 
heaven?"  There  was  a  tremor  in  the  old  cracked 
voice. 

Fanita  looked  more  sympathetically  at  her. 


334    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"111  take  it,"  she  said.  "But  I  hope  he  won't 
eat  it." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Oestocris  eagerly,  pushing 
her  towards  the  door.  "It  will  do  him  good. 
Take  it  to  him." 

Holding  the  bowl  carefully  and  peering  about 
her,  Fanita  walked  gingerly  into  the  darkness. 
She  had  not  to  search  long.  The  fields  across 
the  road,  where  she  went  first,  disclosed  him. 
But  she  did  not  see  him  till  she  heard  his  rough 
breathing.  He  was  leaning  in  a  corner  of  the 
fence  which  partly  supported  his  burden. 

"Paez!"  she  said.     "Is  this  you?" 

The  answer  was  an  aimless  grunt. 

"Are  you  hungry?"  she  asked. 

He  said  nothing,  but  she  made  out  that  he  was 
nodding  in  the  darkness. 

"Here  is  something  to  eat,  your  mother  sent 
you." 

She  saw  the  two  hands  stretched  eagerly  to- 
ward her.  But  she  drew  back  with  the  bowl. 
As  she  did  so,  Paez  raised  one  of  his  extended 
arms  to  point  into  the  distance  beyond  her.  She 
half  turned  to  look.  The  moon,  just  appearing 
over  the  sturdy  shoulder  of  Mount  Blanca, 
brought  out  against  the  softly  lighted  sky  his 
bold  outline  in  silhouette.  Already,  even  where 
they  stood,  the  night  was  a  shade  less  dark. 

Paez  got  one  of  his  hot  hands  on  Fanita' s  bare 
forearm  and  tried  to  pull  it  and  the  bowl  to  him. 


FEEDING   THE   HUNGRY  335 

But  again  she  resisted,  saying  cheerily,  "I  am 
sure  that  is  a  sign  from  the  Blessed  Virgin  to 
encourage  you,  the  moon  coming  just  now.  You 
don't  want  to  eat,  Paez,  and  break  your  fast. 
Doesn't  Father  Chucho  feed  you  with  the 
Host?" 

"I  am  hungry,"  he  cried  in  his  hoarse,  rough- 
ened voice. 

"Then  take  it,"  said  she,  letting  go  the  bowl; 
"and  I  pray  that  it  will  give  you  strength  and 
courage  to  hold  out.  And  the  Blessed  Virgin 
forgive  me.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,  if  I  hadn't 
loved  you." 

Paez  was  taking  no  heed  of  what  she  said.  All 
doubled  over  as  he  was,  holding  the  bowl  in  the 
crook  of  one  arm,  he  was  fishing  out  the  food 
with  his  other  hand,  and  eating  greedily.  While 
she  watched  him  by  the  rising  light  of  the  moon, 
Fanita  prayed.  When  he  had  gobbled  all,  and 
had  even  contrived  to  get  his  head  clear  of  the 
cross  and  to  drink  the  last  drop  of  soup,  the  girl, 
holding  out  her  hand,  said:  "Give  me  the  bowl; 
and  I  trust  now  that  God  will  send  you  strength 
to  make  a  good  and  glorious  Christ." 

"I  am  thirsty,"  growled  Paez,  and  he  dragged 
past  her  in  the  direction  of  the  river. 

Fanita  turned  to  look  after  him,  sighing;  then 
she  shook  her  head  doubtfully,  and  returned  to 
his  mother's  house. 


XXXVIII 
FAY    GOES   TOO    FAR 

AT  SIX  the  next  morning,  which  was  Sun- 

I— \    day,  the  day  after  the  Mormons'  visit, 

^      ■*■  Fay  got  up,  dressed,  and  went  down  into 

the  kitchen.       There  she  found  Sefiorita  Tecla 

before  her. 

"The  Father's  too  weak  to  say  his  mass  this 
morning,"  Tecla  began  as  soon  as  her  hand-maid 
came  in.  "I  don't  think  he  can  get  out  of  bed. 
I'm  going  to  ask  Father  Dumain  to  say  his  mass. 
It's  a  good  thing  he's  a  priest." 

"Do  I  have  to  go?"  asked  Fay. 

"Why,  of  course,  you  do.  Don't  you  always 
go?    Every  Sunday?" 

"I  ain't  no  Catholic,"  said  Fay  sullenly,  giv- 
ing the  fire  she  was  making  a  vicious  poke. 

"The  sooner  you  become  one  the  better  it 
will  be  for  your  soul,  Fay  Grady.  I  can  tell  you 
that." 

Without  another  answer  Fay  listened  all  the 
while  breakfast  was  preparing  to  the  acrid  re- 
ligious lecture  she  had  called  down  upon  her- 
self. 

Mass  was  at  nine  o'clock.  Except  Dumain  and 
a  small  boy  to  serve  him,  the  only  people  in  the 
church  were  the  hired   man,   Dolores,   Pasco, 

336 


FAY   GOES   TOO    FAR  337 

Tecla,  and  Fay  Grady.  Fay  took  pains  to  sit 
at  the  other  end  of  their  front  pew  from  the 
Senorita. 

They  had  to  themselves  a  big  and  not  an  ugly 
church.  The  various  shades  it  was  painted  in 
had  faded  until  the  gold  was  dingy  and  they  all 
blended.  The  altars,  with  their  lace  and  their 
gilt  ornaments  and  their  imitation  flowers,  even 
though  a  trifle  tawdry,  were  pretty.  The  morn- 
ing sun  pouring  through  one  of  the  painted  win- 
dows, fell  on  Fay's  hair  and  made  it  a  lovely  un- 
natural shade  of  pale  purple. 

Dumain  repeated  mass  soothingly  in  his 
strong,  pleasant  voice.  Its  hushed  cadences  were 
better  than  much  music.  His  little  congregation, 
even  to  Fay,  followed  the  service  reverently, 
looking  on  their  prayer-books,  kneeling  and 
standing  at  the  proper  times,  and  again  kneeling. 
The  Senorita  had  her  rosary  wound  round  her 
hand.  Above  the  confidential  murmur  of  the 
priest's  voice,  Fay  once  or  twice  heard  the  faint 
crow  of  some  far-away  cock.  A  warm  breeze 
came  in  through  an  open  window. 

At  last  came  the  Elevation.  The  boy  in  his 
mussed  white  cassock,  kneeling  on  the  lowest 
altar  step,  sounded  his  bell.  Four  heads  were 
bent  with  reverently  closed  eyes.  But  Fay,  with 
head  erect,  rose,  slipped  out  of  the  pew,  and  hur- 
ried to  the  front  door,  as  fast  as  she  could  away 
from  the  church.    Tecla,  whose  sharp  ears  heard 


338    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

her  go,  had  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  restrain 
herself  from  looking  up  during  the  Elevation. 

Fay,  once  outside,  actually  ran  through  the 
garden,  into  the  house  door;  and  then,  slowing 
a  little,  through  the  study  into  the  sacristy.  For- 
tunately the  door  into  the  chancel  was  closed. 
Dumain's  coat  hung  on  a  hook.  It  took  her  but 
an  instant  to  get  the  letter;  and  in  not  more  than 
three  minutes  after  that  she  reached  the  hotel. 
She  burst  into  the  dining-room,  where  Houghtel- 
ing  and  the  Sergeant  sat,  gasping,  "Hurry! 
Here,  read  it,  and  let  me  take  it  back,  or  they  will 
find  out.    There's  only  five  minutes." 

Houghteling  snatched  the  letter. 

"Why,  it's  torn,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Father  Dumain  tore  it,  himself,"  said  Fay. 

"It's  in  Spanish,"  he  said.  "Call  Mr.  Stangef 
Why  wasn't  I  a  West  Pointer?" 

Alfie,  who  was  having  a  bath,  appeared  in  a 
few  seconds  with  nothing  on  but  his  trousers  and 
holding  a  towel. 

"Beg  your  pardon;"  he  nodded  at  Fay. 

Fay,  not  understanding,  merely  stared. 

"My  Spanish  is  pretty  rusty,"  he  said,  putting 
the  two  pieces  together  and  studying  the  paper. 

Fay  was  gazing  at  his  broad  fine  body  with  its 
smooth  skin. 

"But  it  seems  to  mean  about  this:  'Brother  in 
God  or  of  God,  and  some  other  people.  The 
Lord  be  with  you.     You  must  defer  your  fes- 


FAY   GOES   TOO    FAR  339 

tivity.'  I  should  say  they  must.  'Cannot  be  with 
you  personally,  but  my  blessing  will  be  with 
towards  you.  Yours  and  something,  P.  Eman- 
ueleY  That's  the  best  I  can  do  without  a  trot. 
Now,  why  did  Dumain  tear  it  up?" 

"Here's  another  that  I  seen  Father  Dumain 
write  himself,"  drawled  Fay. 

"The  scoundrel,"  exclaimed  Stange.  "Let's 
see  it.  This  one's  in  Spanish,  too,  and  is  signed 
Dumain:  The  soldiers  will  not  march  before 
six;  so  you  can  safely  begin  about  dawn.  Father 
Emanuele  is  too  sick  to  write.  I  send  our  bless- 
mg. 

"What!"   exclaimed  Houghteling,  amazed. 

"And  now,  Fay  my  fairy,  you  run  back  with 
it  quick.  You're  a  dead  game  peach  and  I  for- 
give you." 

Fay  was  out  of  the  room  with  the  letter;  her 
green  gown  flashed  past  the  windows. 

"That  girl's  hot  ice  in  large  cakes,"  said  Alfie 
approvingly.  "I  never  saw  her  waked  up  before." 

"I  suppose  it  was  best  to  let  her  take  it  back," 
Houghteling  mused. 

"Of  course.  We  don't  want  to  get  the  girl  into 
trouble." 

"So  he  does  want  them  to  pull  it  through," 
said  Houghteling,  grimly. 

"Aha!    Jesuit  uncloaked!"  cried  Stange. 

"Would  you  march  at  once?" 

"I'd  march  at  midnight,"  said  Alfie,  starting 


340    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

back  to  his  bath.  "It's  cool  then,  and  plenty 
of  time.  In  the  meanwhile  I'd  surround  that  par- 
sonage and  not  let  another  soul  out." 

Fay,  while  this  conversation  was  going-  on, 
had  returned  almost  as  quickly  as  she  had  gone. 
Putting  the  letter  back  into  the  pocket  of  the 
coat  in  the  sacristy,  she  went  into  the  garden 
and  sat  down  in  the  shade  on  the  front  steps. 
The  church  bell  left  off  ringing;  so  she  knew 
that  mass  was  nearly  over.  As  she  sat  there 
panting  from  her  run,  she  heard  voices  inside 
the  house.  She  moved  to  one  side  so  as  not  to 
be  seen  from  within  and  continued  sitting 
quietly 

After  she  had  been  there  for  what  seemed  a 
good  while,  with  the  smell  of  the  trees  in  her 
nostrils,  a  horse  came  round  from  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  passing  the  garden,  trotted  down  the 
road  in  the  sunlight.  She  recognized  Pasco  on 
it;   but  he  didn't  see  her. 

Pasco  had  been  given  the  letter  and  had  been 
sped  away  from  the  back  door  by  his  hostess  and 
Dumain.  After  he  was  out  of  sight  round  the 
corner  of  the  house,  Tecla  began:  "I  can't  think 
where  that  girl  can  be.  It's  shameful,  such  a 
thing  occurring  in  one's  own  house.  I  don't 
know  how  to  apologize " 

"Don't  try  to,"  said  Dumain  gallantly.  "I 
know  it  was  not  at  all  your  fault.    But  you  are 


FAY    GOES    TOO    FAR  341 

going  to  punish  the  girl  in  some  way  for  her 
own " 

"Indeed  I  shall.    What  can  I  do  to  her?" 

"I  should  advise  locking  her  in  her  room. 
With  soldiers  in  the  Valley, " 

"I'll  go  look  for  her  again.  Shameless  crea- 
ture!" 

She  hurried  from  the  kitchen,  and  as  she  went 
first  to  look  in  the  garden,  she  soon  found  the 
culprit  sitting  complacently  on  the  front  steps. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  leaving  the  church, 
Fay  Grady,  in  the  middle  of  mass?" 

"I  was  tired  of  the  mass,"  said  Fay  calmly. 

"Don't  answer  me!"  cried  Tecla,  furious. 
;'You  are  a  heathen,  and  I'm  ashamed  to  have 
you  in  my  house,  good-for-nothing,  deceitful 
girl!  I  know  what  I'll  do  with  you.  Go  to 
your  room  at  once;   do  you  hear  me?" 

Fay  quietly  got  up  to  go-. 

"I  told  you  not  to  go  out  again  without  my 
permission.  You're  a  disgrace  to  me.  You  must 
have  meant  some  mischief — I'm  sure  those  sol- 
diers— There's  one  of  them  now!"  cried  the  in- 
dignant Senorita,  catching  sight  of  Stange  saun- 
tering along  the  road  smoking.  "Get  up  stairs! 
Ugh,  I  wish  I  was  rid  of  you." 

Fay  slowly  went  up  to  her  room.  Tecla,  ner- 
vously following,  ran  into  her  own  room,  got 
her  great  bunch  of  keys,  and  locked  the  girl's 
door  on  the  outside.     Then  she  flounced  away 


342    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

again  and  with  the  utmost  difficulty  began  mov- 
ing a  heavy  chest  of  drawers  down  the  hall  with 
which  to  bar  the  prison  door,  panting  with 
fatigue  and  anger  over  her  task. 


XXXIX 

AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE 

AS  SOON  as  Stange  reported  the  messen* 

l—\  ger's  departure,  the  blockade  of  the 
-*■     -*■    priest's  house  was  begun. 

Tecla,  who  was  cooking  dinner,  was  so 
alarmed  at  the  posting  of  a  guard  outside  her 
kitchen  window  that,  when  he  had  conciliatorily 
but  firmly  refused  to  obey  her  nervous  command 
to  go  away,  she  ran  tremblingly  upstairs  and 
hysterically  besought  Dumain's  help.  He,  calm- 
ing and  reassuring  her,  bade  her  not  to  alarm 
her  brother  needlessly  about  it.  "It  would  only 
make  him  worse,"  said  he;  "and  I'm  sure  there's 
no  danger.  The  best  thing  for  you  to  do,"  he 
continued  kindly,  "is  to  stop  crying,  like  a  brave 
Christian  woman,  and  go  get  his  dinner.  You 
must  control  yourself  and  trust  in  the  Lord  and 
the  Blessed  Virgin." 

Tecla  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  apron. 

"Will  you?"  He  took  her  cold  hand  in  a 
priestly  clasp. 

"I  will  try,"  she  said  brokenly. 

"No,  promise  me,"  he  insisted. 

"I  promise,"  she  said  with  a  gulp.  "But,  oh  J 
I  am  so  tried  to-day." 

"Say  your  beads  and  you  will  forget  it.  Now 
go,  and  don't  think  about  all  this." 

343 


344    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

Tecla  halted  on  the  threshold  and  said  tragi- 
cally. "Oh,  those  poor  Penitentes!  What  will 
they  do  with  them,  if  they  treat  us  like  this?" 

"That's  what  puzzles  me,"  said  Dumain. 

"Write  and  tell  them  to  stop,"  she  pleaded. 

"Why,  so  your  brother  has.  You  saw  the 
letter:  'By  no  means  continue  your  ceremony/  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  sniffling;  "so  I  did.  I  am  so 
upset." 

Still  hysterically  sobbing  and  choking,  she 
•descended  to  the  kitchen. 

Dumain  went  down  to  the  front  door  and 
asked  the  soldier  there  where  he  could  find  one 
of  the  officers. 

"The  Captain  and  the  Lieutenant's  at  the 
liotel.  But  you  can't  go  out.  The  Sergeant's 
at  a  little  door  round  behind  the  church.  Will 
I  call  him?" 

Dumain,  saying  he  would  go  to  him,  went  in 
and  found  a  passageway  with  a  little  door  at  the 
end,  wrhich  he  opened;  and  there  was  the  Ser- 
geant, who  saluted. 

"You  will  assure  me,  I  suppose,"  said  Dumain, 
"that  no  harm  is  intended  us  so  long  as  we  stay 
quietly  indoors." 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"What  time  do  you  think  the  Captain  pro- 
poses  " 

"Special  orders  to  answer  none  of  your  ques- 
tions, sir,"  interrupted  the  Sergeant  stiffly.  "The 


AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE  345 

Captain  will  be  here  after  a  while  if  you  want 
him." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  nodded  Dumain. 

He  went  in,  and  repeated  the  Sergeant's  as- 
surance to  Tecla. 

Fay  Grady  had  taken  her  imprisonment  phil- 
osophically. At  first,  she  had  indeed  pounded 
a  few  times  on  the  door  with  her  fist,  but  when 
she  heard  the  heavy  furniture  being  moved,  she 
had  resigned  herself  to  her  fate  and  gone  com- 
placently to  the  window.  Her  room  was  over 
the  little  door,  where  Dumain  interviewed  the 
Sergeant.  The  back  of  the  church  and  one  large, 
tree  cut  off  the  view,  and  both  were  too  far  away 
for  climbing  down. 

After  looking  out  for  a  short  while,  she  had 
lain  down  on  her  bed;  and  despite  its  being  broad 
daylight,  was  soon  asleep.  She  slept  soundly  all 
afternoon. 

Houghteling  and  Stange  spent  most  of  that 
Sunday  afternoon  in  the  hotel  bar.  On  the  map 
they  studied  the  lay  of  the  land,  which  is  all 
pretty  flat  in  the  San  Luis  Valley,  though  to- 
wards San  Rafael  there  is  more  of  a  roll.  Wezel, 
who  had  lived  for  many  years  at  Antonito,  was 
able  to  help  them  a  good  deal.  They  planned 
their  march  as  carefully  as  possible.  Now  that 
they  had  intercepted  Dumain's  message,  they 
were  to  start  at  midnight;  and  they  calculated 
that  it  would  take  at  least  three  hours. 


346    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN  RAFAEL 

At  four  o'clock  they  heard  the  down  train 
pass  without  stopping. 

At  five,  when  the  relief  was  posted  at  the  par- 
sonage, Houghteling  went  over  with  them. 
Dumain  appeared  at  the  church  door  and  spoke 
to  him. 

"How  are  you?"  said  the  Captain  gravely. 

"I  suppose  you  do  not  wish  me  to  come  out." 

'That  was  my  idea,"  said  Houghteling,  still 
gravely. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Dumain,  "that  you  refuse  to 
have  more  confidence  in  me:  but  that  shall  not 
prevent  my  giving  you  another  piece  of  infor- 
mation, which  may  be  useful.  I  find  the  Peni- 
tentes  are  not,  after  all,  going  to  abandon  their 
ceremony,  but  merely  to  begin  earlier.  The 
ceremony  will  probably  be  at  four  to-morrow 
morning;  so  I  should  advise  your  setting  out 
for  there  about  midnight.  I  trust  you  will  be 
successful." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Houghteling,  formally, 
but  he  could  not  conceal  the  surprise  in  his  eyes. 

Dumain  disappeared  into  the  church. 

When  Houghteling  reached  the  hotel  again, 
he  said  to  Stange:  "I  can't  understand  that  man. 
What  do  you  think  he  told  me?  That  we'd  better 
march  at  midnight." 

Alfie  laughed  heartily. 

"What  a  boy  he  is!"  said  he.  "He  probably 
had  discovered  that  we  intercepted  his  letter. 


AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE  347 

That's  what  it  is  to  be  a  diplomat.  You'll  never 
be  one,  Dan.    I  might." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  he  knew,"  considered 
Houghteling.  "He  didn't  act  like  it.  But  I'm 
more  at  a  loss  than  ever  to  know  his  game.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything  unexpected* 
We'll  keep  him  in  there  till  it's  all  over." 

"You  bet  we  will,"  agreed  Stange. 

Houghteling  turned  and  went  into  the  hotel. 

A  minute  or  two  later,  while  Stange  was  still 
standing  there  whistling  to  himself,  a  man  came 
hurriedly  riding,  and  drew  up.  He  recognized 
one  of  the  Mormons  who  had  been  with  Wiv- 
vers.  Instinctively  his  hand  went  to  his  holster. 
But  the  Mormon,  without  a  word,  handed  him 
a  letter  and  rode  off  as  fast  as  he  had  come. 

As  the  letter  had  no  address,  Alfie  tore  it  open. 

"Dan!"  he  was  shouting  the  next  minute  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  "come  down!  Here's  more 
news.  Those  Mormons  are  coming,"  he  cried  as 
Houghteling  reappeared. 

The  Captain  read  the  letter,  which  was  written 
in  a  large,  scrawly,  careful  hand,  as  follows: 

"We  are  going  to  join  you  against  the  San 
Rafaelers  after  all.  We  don't  want  no  quarrel 
with  you  and  they  ought  to  be  put  down.  Agree 
with  thine  adversary  quickly,  says  the  holy  scrip- 
tures. We  will  meet  you  to-morrow  morning1 
early.  Yours,  etc. 

"Naphtali  Wiwers,  Elder." 


348    THE  PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Where's  the  man  that  brought  it?"  asked 
Houghteling. 

"He  rode  away  like  hell." 

"Why  did  you  let  him?  We'll  have  to  write 
now  and  tell  them  to  stay  away." 

"What  for?"  said  Stange.  "They  won't  do 
any  harm." 

"Harm!  Didn't  they  go  off  swearing  ven- 
geance?   Trust  an  insulted  savage." 

"I'd  just  as  soon  trust  them,"  says  Alfie,  non- 
chalantly. 

"You  know  what  I  put  up  with  to  get  clear 
of  them.    It's  about  a  woman,  too." 

"Anyway,  they'll  never  think  of  going  so 
early,"  argued  Alfie. 

"For  all  we  know  Dumain  may  have  told 
them." 

"Gad!    Do  you  think  he's  in  this,  too?" 

"He  called  them  in  first,"  said  Houghteling. 

"He's  a  corker!"  laughed  Alfie. 

"Get  a  horse  saddled,  while  I  write  a  note,  will 
you?" 

Houghteling  went  into  the  bar  and  wrote  this 
laconic  note: 

"You  needn't  come.  I  told  you  to  remain 
quiet.  Houghteling, 

"Captain  Commanding." 

He  addressed  it  to  Naphtali  Wivvers. 
The  soldier  who  took  it  was  bidden  to  follow 
the  Mormon  at  full  speed;  and  if  he  didn't  catch 


AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE  349 

him  at  a  house  two  miles  down  the  road,  to  in- 
quire the  way  and  ride  straight  to  Manassa.  He 
spurred  his  horse,  which  sprang  forward;  and 
soon  they  were  only  a  cloud  of  sand  glimmering 
far  down  the  road. 

When  late  in  the  evening,  he  returned  tired 
and  dusty,  with  a  wet  horse,  he  reported  that 
only  a  few  miles  from  Manassa  he  had  overtaken 
the  Mormon,  who  took  the  note  without  a  word. 

Darkness  fell  quickly.  The  moon  seemed 
brighter  and  bigger  than  usual, — rather  puffy, — 
and  there  were  few  stars.  Occasionally  a  dog 
was  heard  barking  and  once  a  horse  neighed; 
but  Stange  noticed  that  there  were  no  crickets. 
At  nine  he  went  over  with  the  relief  guard. 
While  he  was  standing  at  the  little  back  door  in 
the  corner  of  the  church  and  the  house,  talking 
with  the  Sergeant,  he  heard  a  voice  above  him 
cautiously  calling  his  name. 

The  tree  threw  a  shadow  where  they  stood. 

"Is  that  you?"  said  the  voice. 

Alfie  paused  and  looked  up.  There  in  the 
moonlight  was  Fay  Grady's  head  out  of  a  window. 

"Fay!    Yes,  it's  I.    What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  get  down,"  said  Fay  lapsing  into 
her  natural  slow  speech. 

"Well,  come  on  down,  and  I'll  let  you  out  this 
door.    Hurry  up." 

"I  can't,"  explained  Fay.    "I'm  locked  in." 

"Who  locked  you  in?" 


35°    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"She  did,"  Fay  drawled,  "  'cause  I  left  the 
church  in  mass." 

"Why,  what  a  bloody  autocrat!  I'll  get  you 
down.     If  I  only  had  a  ladder." 

"There's  one  in  the  church  that  they  mend 
the  bells  with.     Inside  the  door,  on  the  left." 

Stange  bade  one  of  the  men  fetch  it. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  be  down  there?" 
inquired  Fay  from  above. 

"Why,  we're  besieging  the  house;  didn't  you 
know?    No  one  is  allowed  to  come  out." 

"I  thought  it  was  something  like  that,"  gig- 
gled the  girl,  "  'cause  I  heard  the  soldiers.  I've 
been  asleep  most  of  the  time.  How  mad  she 
must  be!    Serves  her  right,  cross  old  thing." 

The  man  returned  carrying  the  ladder.  They 
hoisted  it  up  and  Fay  began  to  clamber  out  the 
window. 

"Wait,"  called  Stange,  who  could  see  her  in 
the  moonlight. 

He  started  up. 

"I  can  get  down  all  right,"  she  said. 

"Wait  for  me,"  he  insisted.  "Now  you  can 
come,"  he  said,  when  he  had  got  to  the  top,  and 
looked  past  her  into  the  moon-lighted  room. 
"Have  you  got  your  nightgown?" 

"No,"  said  Fay,  going  back  for  it. 

"You'd  better." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  as  she  cautiously  turned  on 
the  window-sill;  "I'll  never  go  back  in  that  house 


AN   INEFFECTIVE  SIEGE  351 

no  more.  They  starve  you,  too,"  she  went  on, 
as  he  helped  her  down  round  by  round,  with  his 
arm  about  her.  "I  ain't  had  nothin'  to  eat  all 
day.     I  got  some  water  out  of  the  pitcher." 

"What  brutes!"  said  Alfie  feelingly.  "But 
we'll  fool  'em.    She'll  be  surprised." 

Fay  laughed.  It  was  a  nervous,  unpracticed 
laugh. 

"Wait  for  me  in  the  garden,"  he  bade  Fay. 

When  the  relief  was  posted,  and  the  soldiers 
coming  off  had  gone  to  the  hotel,  he  found  her 
waiting  inside  the  gate.  They  walked  slowly 
back.  He  carried  her  bundle  and  put  one  arm 
round  the  plump  waist.  Her  head  came  just 
above  his  shoulder.  Only  once,  where  the  porch 
of  the  post  office  made  a  shadow  in  the  moon- 
light, did  he  pause  and  bend  down  to  kiss  her. 
He  proposed  to  stop  and  sit  there  on  the  steps, 
but  Fay  couldn't  see  the  use;  and,  besides,  she 
was  hungry.    So  they  strolled  on. 

He  brought  her  into  the  room,  where  were 
Houghteling  and  Wezel  and  the  six  men  just 
relieved.  The  soldiers  all  stood  to  one  side,  and 
stared  at  the  buxom  young  figure  in  bright 
green. 

"Good  evening!"  Houghteling  greeted  her. 
"I  hear  you've  been  rescued." 

"What  she  wants  is  food,"  cried  Alfie.  "Get 
her  some  bread  and  ham,  old  Wezel,  and  some 
beer." 


352    THE  PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

Fay  ate,  oblivious  of  all  else. 

"I  thought  I  told  you,"  said  Houghteling  in 
a  low  tone,  standing  in  front  of  Stange,  who  sat 
at  the  table,  "that  no  one  was  to*  leave  that  house 
without  my  written  order/' 

"Oh,  I  forgot  that,"  said  Alfie.  "But  it's  all 
right.    Fay  here " 

"But  the  men  knew  it,"  said  Houghteling,  still 
black. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  them,  old  man,"  laughed  Alfie, 
putting  his  hands  on  Houghteling's  shoulders. 

The  Captain  looked  relieved. 

"That's  better  for  discipline.  But  you'll  never 
make  a  soldier,  Alfred." 

"While  Danny  here,  who  rose  from  the  ranks, 
will  go  up,  so  high — till  he's  a  Major-General. 
Well,  I  hope  so." 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed  now  and  get  a  couple 
of  hour's  sleep  before  we  march.    I  am." 

"I'm  not." 

"You're  not?    Why?" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  her."  He  jerked  his  head 
towards  Fay  behind  him. 

"You  mean  to  say  you'd  lose  your  wink  of 
sleep  before  a  hot  march,  for  that?" 

"Yes,  for  that,"  retorted  Alfie,  defiant.  "I've 
never  had  a  good  chance  to  talk  to  her  yet." 

Houghteling  turned  away  with  a  shrug. 

"You  men,  turn  in,"  he  commanded,  and  left 
the  room. 


AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE  353 

Alfie,  swinging  his  legs  and  smiling,  waited  till 
they  all  had  gone  out,  and  Wezel  after  them. 

Fay  had  taken  no  notice  of  anything  but  her 
supper.  He  turned  towards  her.  "It's  good  to 
be  free  to  go  where  you  want,  isn't  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  gray  eyes. 

"I  reckon  I'll  go  over  to  Manassa,"  she  said. 

"Not  tonight." 

"Yes.    I  guess  so." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't,"  said  Alfie. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you.     I  want  you  to  tell 

me You  can  sleep  here.    We're  going  away 

to-morrow." 

"Are  you?"  said  Fay,  disinterestedly. 

"Yes,  we  are.    Aren't  you  sorry?" 

She  looked  at  him  awhile  with  rather  a  puz- 
zled expression. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  finally. 

He  laughed  dryly. 

"Have  you  ever  been  out  of  the  Valley,  Fay?" 
He  reclined  on  the  table,  leaning  his  head  on  his 
hand  so  that  it  was  on  a  level  with  hers. 

Fay  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"I  was  seven  when  I  came  here,"  she  drawled, 
blinking  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  of  course.  From  Georgia.  Don't  you 
ever  feel  as  if  you'd  like  to  go  out  again?  Up 
to  Denver,  or  anywhere?" 


354    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"Sometimes,"  said  Fay,  slowly.  "I  don't 
know." 

"Do  you  think  you'll  marry  Wivvers?"  he 
asked  softly. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  I  will  now." 

She  twisted  from  her  placid  position  and 
stretched  her  shoulders. 

"You  think " 

Fay  now  fairly  yawned,  and  he  paused. 

"Ah,"  she  said  yawning;  "I  guess  I'll  go  to 
bed." 

"Oh,  no,"  coaxed  Alfie,  "stay  and  talk  with 
me. 

"I'm  so  sleepy,"  said  Fay,  rubbing  her  hands 
over  her  face,  and  yawning  again. 

Alfie  laughed  once  more,  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, got  off  the  table,  and  yelled  for  Wezel. 

"I'll  get  him  to  fix  up  my  room  for  you,"  he 
said.    "And  you  be  sure  to  wait  till  we  get  back 


As  for  Dolores,  Tecla  had  gone  to  her  room 
Sunday  morning  and  had  taken  her  down  for 
breakfast  and  mass.  She  had  not  noticed  that 
the  door  of  the  room  was  already  unlocked  when 
she  turned  the  key  in  it.  The  girl  was  obstin- 
ately silent.  Pasco  gazed  at  her  in  amazement; 
but  sh£  only  returned  one  withering  stare,  and 
then  would  not  see  him.  After  mass  Tecla  was 
too  much  excited  over  Fay  Grady  to  think  of 


AN   INEFFECTIVE   SIEGE  355 

her  other  charge;  but  when  she  did  remember 
her,  she  found  the  girl  quiet  in  her  room.  By 
this  time  the  house  was  surrounded  by  soldiers, 
and  Dolores  was  so  docile  that  Tecla  did  not 
think  it  needful  to  lock  her  in  again.  She  found 
that  the  girl  went  to  her  own  room  after  each 
meal  and  stayed  there;  and  when  Tecla  went 
to  bed,  Dolores  was  apparently  sleeping". 


XL 
THE  VIGIL 

THE  vigil  of  San  Rafael's  Day  was  a 
strangely  silent  night  in  the  Penitentes  vil- 
lage,— very  strangely  silent,  for  there  was 
not  a  moan,  not  a  sigh  to  be  heard  from  the  dim 
houses:  nothing  but  the  slight  stinging  sounds 
of  whips  on  bare  flesh, — sounds  almost  like 
kisses.  All  the  men  were  indoors,  in  their  own 
houses  performing  this  last  preparatory  rite  of 
flagellation, — a  final  mortification  of  the  flesh  to 
purify  them  for  the  supreme  sacrifice  of  the  mor- 
row. Hour  after  hour  it  continued;  the  hissing 
sounds  sometimes  ceasing  for  a  while  in  one 
house  or  another,  but  never  in  all  of  them.  The 
dusk  gathered  into  darkness  and  the  moon  set 
behind  the  eastern  mountains.  In  the  open 
space  of  the  village  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen, 
till  all  at  once  Fanita  came  hurrying  aimlessly 
along, — hurrying  and  then  pausing.  She  held 
both  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  then  again  over 
her  ears. 

Wandering  at  first  from  her  own  house, 
straight  out  into  the  open,  at  last  she  changed 
her  course,  and  finally  went  running  in  at  the 
open  door  of  the  house  of  Oestocris.  The  old 
woman,  sitting  alone  in  the  wan  lamp-light,  rock- 

356 


THE  VIGIL  357 

ing  to  and  fro  as  she  mumbled  prayer  upon 
prayer,  raised  her  head  and  was  silent  as  the  girl 
came  hurrying  in. 

"Oestocris!"  cried  Fanita,  with  a  little  groan. 
"Isn't  it  horrible?" 

Dropping  to  her  knees,  she  again  laid  her  two 
hands  over  her  ears. 

Oestocris  glared  at  her  with  her  sharp  eyes, 
but  she  spoke  kindly. 

"What  is  it,  daughter?" 

"I  can  hear  it  yet,"  moaned  the  girl.  "The 
whip  on  my  father's  back, — biting,  biting.  His 
back  is  all  red,  with  long  welts  down  it.  And 
the  drops  of  blood  drop  on  the  floor.  And  it 
never  stops."    She  shuddered. 

"You  should  have  been  praying,  Neetasta,  and 
not  thinking  of  such  things.  In  every  house  our 
men  are  flagellating  themselves;  your  father  is 
not  the  only  one.  It  is  the  will  of  God.  He  does 
not  feel  it,  for  his  mind  is  too  full  of  his  holy 
purpose." 

"It  is  awful,  awful!"  sighed  the  girl.  "I  can't 
bear  to  see  it." 

"I  am  surprised  you  are  so  weak,"  said  Oesto- 
cris, severely.  "I  should  be  willing  to  do  it  my- 
self. Remember  the  stripes  and  the  blood  are 
for  the  glory  of  God.    He  suffered  so,  Himself." 

Fanita  sadly  shook  her  head. 

"Think  of  the  glorious  morning.  Think  of 
Paez.    Be  strong.    Be  strong  as  he  is." 


358    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN  RAFAEL 

"He  doesn't  have  to  lash  himself,"  said  Fanita. 

"He  is  to  be  crucified." 

"I  know,  I  know;  but  that  is  different.  That 
is  glorious." 

"That  is  hard,  too,"  said  the  old  woman;  "un- 
less you  are  filled  with  the  love  of  God." 

"Anyway,  Paez  is  not  so  strong,"  objected  the 
girl  in  self-defence.  "He  is  frightened  as  well 
as  I  am." 

"Neetasta!"  the  harsh  old  voice  rang  with 
reproach. 

Fanita  made  no  answer. 

After  a  few  moments  Oestocris,  stiffly  clam- 
bering to  her  feet,  held  out  her  hand  to  the  girl. 

"Come,"  she  said.  "We  will  go  and  see  how 
he  is.  We  will  say  good-bye  to  him.  To-morrow 
it  would  not  be  proper." 

Fanita  hung  back.    "The  Father  will  see  us." 

"No  one  will  see  us,"  said  Oestocris,  seizing 
the  girl's  hand  and  dragging  her  along.  "They 
are  all  indoors.     Listen!" 

As  they  stole  along,  clinging  together,  the 
night  was  alive  with  the  monotonous  hiss  of  the 
scourges.  They  hurried  silently  from  the  village, 
and  up  to  the  swell  of  the  hills.  There,  as  they 
moved  slowly,  peering  about  for  some  sign  of 
their  cross-bearer  in  the  gloom,  suddenly  there 
was  a  dull  cry  at  their  very  feet.  They  both 
shrank  back. 

"Paez!"  exclaimed  his  mother. 


THE  VIGIL  359> 

"You  have  stepped  on  him,"  breathed  Fanita^ 
horror-stricken. 

Kneeling  among  the  low-growing  bushes,, 
where  he  lay  fallen,  they  felt  for  him  blindly. 

"Paez!"  implored  Oestocris.  "Where  are  you? 
Did  I  hurt  you?" 

After  awhile  the  answer  came  in  the  hoarse 
lifeless  voice:  "I  don't  know.  I  can't  feel  what 
hurts  me  now." 

His  voice  almost  died  away  as  he  spoke,  flick- 
ering with  his  breath. 

"Paez,  you  are  not  dying?"  Oestocris,  put- 
ting out  one  bony  hand,  felt  for  his  face,  and  then 
smoothed  back  the  matted  hair  from  his  fore- 
head. 

"No,  no,"  he  answered.  "I  am  strong.  I  can 
carry  the  cross.  I  am  not  even  hungry  any 
more." 

He  spoke  so  falteringly  that  they  waited  to. 
see  if  more  was  coming. 

"Are  you  frightened?"  asked  Fanita,  in  her 
clear  young  voice. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked  quickly,  moving  his 
head  under  his  mother's  hand.  "Nita!"  There 
was  a  tone  of  disheartenment  in  his  voice.  "I 
thought  it  was  Dolores  come  back." 

"To-morrow  is  the  day,"  said  Fanita.  "Did 
you  know?" 

This  time  they  hardly  thought  the  answer  was. 
coming  at  all. 


.360    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

"So  much  the  better,"  he  said  calmly. 

"Are  you  frightened  ?"  asked  his  mother. 

"No!"  He  spoke  with  an  unnatural  calmness. 
"The  angels  come  and  talk  to  me,  and  tell  me 
about  heaven.  And  then  I  shall  have  no  cross 
to  carry." 

"It  is  beautiful  in  heaven!"  said  Oestocris, 
rapturously. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  in  the  same  dull  tone. 
""Yes.  There  is  nothing  to  hurt  you  there.  Only 
if  I  had  gone  with  Dolores,  I  should  not  want 
to  go  to  heaven  so  soon.  We  should  have  gone 
off  way  over  there,  out  of  the  Valley,  and  never 
come  back.  It  is  different  over  there.  We  would 
have  been  married,  Dolores  and  me,  and  we 
would  have  lived  there  in  our  house,  with  a 
ranch,  and  horses,  and  lots  of  cattle,  and  fields, 
and  horses,  and  Dolores, — Dolores  and  me.  She 
"wanted  me  to  go,  and  I  wish  I  had  gone.  She 
loved  me  and  I  loved  her;  and  they  took  me 
and  put  me  on  this  cross,  and  it  is  killing  me." 

"Paez!"  Fanita's  voice  hurled  out  her  pent- 
up  feelings. 

He  paused,  and  then  resumed  again:  "Dolores 
said  it  was  killing  me;  and  I  would  have  gone 
away  with  her,  and  never  wanted  to  go  to 
"heaven;  and  I  wish  I  had  now.  Because  she 
loved  me." 

Suddenly  his  words  ceased  in  a  vague  mum- 


THE  VIGIL  361 

bling.  His  mother  had  laid  her  hand  over  his, 
mouth. 

"pray — paez — pray!"  she  said  in  his  ear. 
"Pray  to  the  Virgin." 

"He  is  crazy,"  she  said  to  Fanita. 

Paez  lay  quite  still  till  she  took  her  hand  off 
his  mouth,  and  then  he  began  to  pray  aloud: 

"Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace "     He  said  the 

words  mechanically,  over  and  over  and  over 
again, — only  sometimes  he  said  "Dolores." 

After  some  minutes,  Fanita  took  him  by  the 
shoulder  and  shook  him.  "Stop!"  she  cried; 
"stop!" 

"Sh!  Nita,"  said  the  old  mother  fiercely.  "He 
is  praying.    Don't  say  stop." 

Still  he  continued  the  prayer. 

"Come,"  said  Oestocris,  with  a  sigh;  "we  will 
go  back." 

So  they  left  him  lying  there  tied  to  the  cross* 
praying  among  the  low-growing  bushes. 


XLI 
THE    FIGHT   AT   THE    CHURCH 

AS  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  had  told  the  Jesuit 
priest  Dumain,  on  the  day  that  the  two 
L  soldiers ,  came  to  San  Rafael  with 
the  order  to  the  Penitentes  for  them  to  abandon 
their  ceremony,  he  hardly  thought  that  at  this 
late  day  he  could  prevent  it  from  taking  place; 
and,  moreover,  he  said  confidentially,  he  should 
not  need  to,  since  he  could  simply  have  it  earlier 
in  the  day  than  they  had  intended.  However, 
he  had  consented,  on  Dumain's  suggestion,  to 
wait  for  a  letter  of  advice  from  the  sick  Father 
Emanuele,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  his,  and 
with  whom  he  had  gone  down  into  the  Valley 
once  or  twice  to  talk  over  the  festival. 

Of  all  this  he  did  not  speak  even  to  Oestocris 
and  Cristoke;  and  the  next  day  when  Pasco, 
whom  he  had  sent  to  Antonito  with  Dumain, 
brought  a  letter  telling  him  to  proceed  with  the 
ceremony  without  fear,  he  no  longer  had  any 
dread  whatever  of  interruption. 

In  Antonito,  however,  there  had  not  been  the 
least  intention  on  the  part  of  any  one  to  allow  the 
ceremony  to  proceed.  Captain  Houghteling  had 
made  all  his  preparations  to  prevent  it;  and  ac- 

362 


THE    FIGHT    AT    THE    CHURCH  363 

cordingly,  a  few  minutes  after  midnight,  when 
San  Rafael's  Day  had  just  begun,  he  drew  up  all 
his  men,  except  the  small  guard  left  at  the  priest's 
house,  and  the  march  on  San  Rafael  began.  The 
moon  had  set;  the  stars  twinkled  coldly  in  an 
almost  blue  sky;  the  air  was  fresh  and  cool.  As 
they  marched,  in  rout  step,  no  sound  was  to  be 
heard  except  the  continuous  chunking  of  the 
men's  feet  in  the  sand  and  the  snorting  of  the 
two  horses.  Everybody  was  silent,  except  when 
occasionally  one  of  the  soldiers  spoke  in  low 
tones  to  his  neighbor. 

At  the  brook  below  the  rise,  which  cut  the 
hamlet  off  from  them,  they  made  their  second 
halt,  and  drank  and  rested.  Houghteling  sent 
two  men  forward  to  reconnoiter.  These  having 
soon  returned  and  reported  nobody  stirring, 
were  sent  on  again  to  give  notice  when  any  one 
should  stir. 

The  others  waited  there  a  long  time  in  silence. 

"They  must  have  overslept,"  said  Stange,  in 
subdued  tones,  looking  at  his  watch. 

Dolores,  who  slept  with  one  eye  open,  was 
aroused  by  the  shuffling  sound  of  the  soldiers' 
footsteps,  as  they  marched  past  the  church  to- 
ward San  Rafael.  Jumping  up  and  leaning  out 
her  open  window,  she  called  anxiously  after 
them.  Hearing  no  reply  from  the  shadows,  she 
called  louder.     This  time  she  was  answered  by 


364    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

a  voice  from  below  her  in  the  darkness  saying: 
"Be  still.    You  can't  get  out." 

She  peered  down,  but  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen. 

Hurrying  stealthily  to  her  door,  through  the 
passage  way,  and  down  the  stairs,  she  cautiously 
opened  the  front  door.  Before  she  could  fix  the 
figure  standing  there,  she  was  accosted  shortly: 
"Halt!    Who  is  there?" 

"I  am,"  said  Dolores,  shutting  the  door  behind 
her." 

"Well,  go  back  again.    No  one  can  come  out." 

Though  she  could  just  barely  see  him,  his  voice 
sounded  very  close. 

"No,  no:  let  me  out.  I  want  to  go  with  them, 
—to  San  Rafael." 

"Orders  to  let  no  one  out.  If  you  stay,  I'll 
call  the  Corporal  of  the  guard." 

"No!"  pleaded  Dolores;  "don't  call  any  one. 
I  can't  go  back.    The  door  is  shut.    Let  me  go." 

The  guard  began  to  call:  "Post  — ,"  but  she 
put  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 

Thinking  she  was  trying  to  slip  past,  he  caught 
hold  of  her.  At  this  Dolores  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  drew  him  down  to  her. 
"Don't  call,"  she  coaxed;  "it's  only  me,  Dolores. 
No,  be  good  to  me." 

He  put  up  his  hand  to  unloose  hers.  "We 
will  be  going  soon,  and  then  you  can  all  come 
out,"  he  said,  weakening. 


THE    FIGHT   AT   THE    CHURCH  3^5 

"How  soon?" 

"In  an  hour  or  two." 

"Oh,  that  won't  do.  I  won't  get  there  in 
time,"  she  begged.  "See,  now,  let  me  go,"  and 
with  that  she  impetuously  kissed  him.  "I  know 
you  will  be  good  to  me." 

"Well ,"  he  began,  still  weakening.    Then 

with  a  change  of  tone:  "Here  comes  the  Cor- 
poral." 

Sure  enough,  Dolores  heard  some  one  and 
caught  sight  of  a  lantern  coming  round  a  corner. 
Like  a  flash,  she  had  released  him,  opened  the 
door  and  was  inside. 

Disconsolately  she  started  up  the  steps  again. 
She  felt  the  tears  run  down  her  face.  The  idea 
of  Fay  Grady  flashed  into  her  mind.  She  had 
told  her  a  way  out  before.  Wiping  her  tears  on 
her  bare  arm,  Dolores  turned  to  Fay's  room.  To 
her  surprise  she  found  a  heavy  chest  before  the 
door.  In  this  she  recognized  Tecla's  work,  and 
realizing  that  Fay  might  herself  be  anxious 
enough  to  escape,  she  set  to  work  to  push  it 
away.  It  was  so  heavy  that  it  grated  on  the 
floor  with  what  seemed  a  terrific  shriek.  But  in 
the  pause  she  made,  Dolores  heard  no  move- 
ment. Reaching  the  door,  she  found  no  key 
in  it. 

Again  an  expedient  flashed  upon  her.  She 
hastened  to  her  own  door,  and  brought  that  key. 
It  fitted.    Pushing  the  door  open  and  closing  it 


366    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

most  softly,  Dolores  called  Fay  in  a  low  voice. 
No  answer.  She  felt  for  the  bed.  It  was  empty. 
She  groped  her  way  to  the  open  window,  and 
leaned  out.  She  found  herself  between  two  pieces 
of  wood  sticking  above  the  sill.  Of  a  sudden 
these  resolved  themselves  into  the  end  of  a  lad- 
der.   The  way  was  clear. 

Before  descending,  Dolores  studied  the  lay  of 
the  land.  Below  her  at  some  distance  from  the 
ladder  sat  the  Corporal  with  his  lantern  by  him. 
Though  he  was  motionless,  she  could  not  be  sure 
that  he  slept.  However,  the  lantern  was  far 
enough  from  the  ladder  not  to  include  it  in  its 
circle  of  light.     Dolores  decided  to  risk  it. 

Holding  her  breath,  she  silently  clambered 
out  on  the  ladder,  and  down.  She  kept  an 
eye  on  the  Corporal;  but  he  didn't  see  her.  Once 
on  the  ground,  she  crept  several  paces,  and  then 
fairly  ran.  She  took  the  road  towards  the  south- 
west. Through  the  heavy  sand,  she  ran  along 
persistently.  It  was  so  dark  that  she  could  not 
see  where  she  was  going;  but  she  knew  the  road 
well,  and  by  the  feeling  under  foot  could  keep  in 
it.  Away  from  the  town,  out  into  the  open 
Valley,  she  ran  on  and  on.  Now  and  again  halt- 
ing for  breath,  she  stood  with  her  hand  over  her 
heart,  gasping.  Then  freshened  by  her  irresisti- 
ble desire,  she  started  on  again.  Once,  hearing 
the  murmur  of  an  artesian  well,  she  stopped  to 
drink  from  it,  and  would  have  thrown  herself 


THE    FIGHT  AT   THE   CHURCH  367 

down  from  sheer  fatigue;  but  becoming  aware 
of  a  dark  object  across  the  road,  she  knew  that 
it  was  her  old  home,  where  her  sister  had  died, 
where  Cristobal  had  murdered  Anunciato;  and, 
spurred  by  the  vision  of  that  desolate  house,  she 
ran  on  again  with  new  vigor.  Always  on  and  on 
blindly,  the  sand  made  her  going  hard.  Occa- 
sionally she  stumbled  in  its  depth,  which  clogged 
her  feet.  But  as  yet  she  had  come  upon  no  sign 
of  the  soldiers;  and  remembering  this  gave  her 
new  desperation  to  press  forward. 

At  last,  panting  with  exhaustion,  she  found 
that  she  began  to  distinguish  objects  as  she 
passed  them.  It  was  beginning  to  grow  a  shade 
less  dark.  In  the  wanness  she  made  out  the  form 
of  a  tree.  Then  she  slackened  her  fierce  pace  a 
little,  for  she  knew  she  was  drawing  nearer  to  the 
rise  of  the  hills.  This  very  thought  that  she  had 
the  shorter  part  of  the  way  yet  to  go,  once  more 
spurred  her  on.  And  though  her  legs  were  heavy 
and  her  shoulders  ached  with  fatigue,  she  forced 
herself  to  keep  up  a  mechanical  running.  The 
pale  dawn  strengthened.  She  could  see  the  hills 
vague  beyond  her.  The  road  began  to  slope 
upwards  and  she  could  not  go  so  fast.  At  last 
she  had  to  stop  and  merely  walk  for  half  a  mile. 
Then  the  revived  fever  of  her  excitement  pushed 
her  on  again. 

Now  she  could  see  the  little  grove  of  trees  that 
she  knew  bordered  the  river  below  San  Rafael. 


368    THE   PENITENTES   OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

They  stood  huddled  together,  strange  in  the  gray 
light  before  sunrise.  Then  she  heard  the  angry 
beat  of  hoofs,  one-tzvo,  one-tzvo.  She  turned 
her  head  to  look;  on  they  came  behind  her. 
No;  it  was  not  the  soldiers.  Without  seeing 
who  it  was,  she  made  her  last  great  effort,  and 
as  they  went  up  the  slope,  kept  still  ahead  of 
them. 

The  Penitentes  had  by  no  means  overslept. 
On  the  contrary,  every  one  of  them  had  been  up 
long  before  dawn  that  morning.  There  was 
much  to  be  done.  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  had 
to  go  round  personally  among  his  excited  peo- 
ple to  see  that  all  the  paraphernalia  were  ready. 
The  crown  of  thorns,  contrived  from  strips  of 
prickly  pear,  he  found  on  hand;  and  Fanita  never 
let  go  of  the  piece  of  unbleached  cotton  that 
figured  Saint  Veronica's  napkin.  But  it  was 
discovered  that  though  large  nails  were  abun- 
dant, nobody  had  thought  of  a  hammer.  As  for 
a  sponge,  there  was  not  such  a  thing  in  San 
Rafael;  but  finally  Panchita  was  able  to  find  a 
piece  of  cotton-batting  that  would  answer. 

All  this  took  some  time.  So  it  was  almost 
daybreak  when  the  procession  formed  to  go  to 
the  church.  Cristoke,  who,  despite  his  age,  was 
decided  on  for  Saint  John,  went  first  with  Oes- 
tocris;  then  Panchita  as  Mary  Magdalene  and 
Fanita  with  her  napkin;  then  came  those  who 


THE    FIGHT   AT   THE   CHURCH  369 

presented  Nicodemus  and  the  Other  Mary, 
Joseph  of  Arimathaea,  and  Simon  the  Cyrenian. 
The  Apostles  followed.  More  pains  had  been 
taken  to  give  everybody  a  part  than  to  be  his- 
torically accurate. 

All  the  Penitentes  wore  their  ordinary  dirty 
white  and  blue  clothes;  the  women  their  little 
round  caps.  The  men,  who  were  bareheaded, 
had  long  black  hair.  All  the  faces  wore  a  very 
serious  expression  of  piety  even  more  marked 
than  commonly. 

This  procession  wended  its  way  slowly  and 
gravely  to  the  church.  Paez,  with  the  cross,  wait- 
ed, crouching  outside;  but  the  others  filing  in, 
took  their  places.  The  priest,  coming  last,  carefully 
drew  the  curtain  before  the  door  of  the  church. 
The  young  acolyte  in  his  scarlet  and  carrying  the 
crown  of  thorns  passed  up  the  aisle,  followed 
by  Father  Maria  de  Jesus  in  a  white  and  gold 
chasuble,  bearing  a  lighted  taper.  They  pro- 
ceeded to  the  altar,  where  the  nails  and  hammer 
and  the  sponge  were  already  set  forth. 

The  Father  placed  his  taper  in  a  candlestick, 
and  while  the  acolyte  stood  near  him  with  the 
censer,  from  which  curled  little  thin  clouds  of 
perfume,  ready  to  cense  each  of  the  implements, 
he  began  to  bless  them  in  turn  and  to  consecrate 
them  to  their  holy  use. 

This  ceremony  finished,  Father  Maria  de  Jesus 


370    THE   PENITENTES  OF   SAN   RAFAEL 

lighted  the  three  rows  of  candles  on  the  altar, 
and  began  mass. 

It  was  after  this  that  the  soldiers  arrived,  and 
not  knowing  that  the  Penitentes  were  already  in 
the  church,  waited  for  them  to  appear.  While 
they  waited,  the  gray  dawn  began  to  glow,  with 
a  vague  smell  of  freshness.  One  yellowish  star 
died  very  hard;  then,  suddenly  with  a  flush  of 
pink,  came  the  sun,  over  Blanca  at  their  backs. 
As  he  rose  there  was  a  wide  view  disclosed  be- 
hind them,  back  over  the  glaring  golden  waste 
of  sand  with  its  elusive  distances. 

In  ten  minutes  it  was  hot. 

"We  might  as  well  go  up  and  occupy  the 
place,"  began  Houghteling;  "they  must  be 
awake." 

He  was  about  to  give  an  order  when  Alfie, 
who  had  been  sweeping  the  Valley  with  a  field 
glass  to  find  the  guard,  who  were  to  have  fol- 
lowed them,  exclaimed:  "Wait  a  minute.  There's 
somebody  coming!" 

Houghteling,  turning,  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hat,  and  letting  his  reins  hang  loose,  gazed 
in  the  direction  the  other  pointed. 

"By  George!  It's  the  Mormons,"  cried 
Stange.    "Yes,  sir!    There's  old  Wivvers." 

"We'll  go  up  before  they  get  here,"  said  the 
other,  "and  give  them  a  bugle-call  and  order 
them  to  remain  peaceably  in  their  houses." 


THE    FIGHT  AT  THE   CHURCH  371 

"Read  the  riot  act,"  agreed  Alfie;  "and  then 
give  the  Saints  what  for,  when  they  come,  for 
coming." 

The  little  detachment  moved  forward. 

Just  then  the  church  bell  began  to  toll. 

"Why,  they've  begun !"  exclaimed  Alfie.  "It's 
queer  the  scouts  didn't  see  them." 

"I  see  why,"  said  Houghteling.  "The  church 
has  no  windows,  and  they've  got  a  curtain  at 
the  door." 

"They've  been  at  mass  all  this  time.  That 
bell  means  it's  nearly  over." 

As  they  drew  near,  they  saw  crouching  in 
front  of  the  little  square  church  a  brown  thing, 
part  of  which  seemed  to  be  a  wooden  cross. 

"What's  that?"  Houghteling  asked,  pointing 
with  his  sword. 

"That's  the  man,"  said  Alfie  with  unconscious 
blasphemy.  "He's  the  one  to  be  crucified.  Nit." 

Houghteling  motioned  to  the  bugler.  "Blow 
— Assembly,"  he  ordered. 

At  the  first  brazen  sounds,  the  curtain  was 
drawn  and  the  congregation  could  be  seen  turn- 
ing hurriedly  round. 

"Remember,"  cried  Houghteling,  rising  in  his 
stirrups,  "don't  shoot!  If  they  resist,  arrest 
them." 

As  the  men  in  blue  crossed  the  sand  at  double- 
quick,  the  wretched,  brown  figure  of  Paez  under 
the  cross,  rose  upright.    Starved  and  worn  and 


372  THE  PENITENTES  OF  SAN  RAFAEL 

dazed  as  he  was,with  a  sudden  accession  of  strength 
he  somehow  burst  the  ropes  that  tied  him  to  the 
cross,  got  it  off  his  back  and  into  his  arms, 
and  in  a  supreme  effort  raised  it  over  his  head 
by  the  beam,  and  aimed  it  at  the  advancing  line 
of  soldiers.  During  the  moment  the  great  beam 
hung  lifted  in  the  air,  Alfie  caught  a  sudden 
sight  of  the  man's  wild,  tortured,  transfigured 
face,  with  eyes  all  whites,  and  heard  him  cry, 
"Jesus!"  The  next  moment  he  spurred  his  horse, 
waving  his  sword.  The  last  soldier  passed  an 
instant  before  the  cross  dropped  ponderously 
with  the  tremendous  power  of  its  own  weight, 
and  the  deathly  silent  figure  in  brown  fell  and 
lay  limp  upon  it,  his  arms  outstretched. 

A  desperate  long  heart-tearing  shriek,  and 
from  behind  the  soldiers  a  girl  came  running 
headlong  through  the  crush  of  men,  and  dropped 
on  the  motionless  body  and  sobbed  and  kissed 
the  face. 

Alfie,  who  had  reined  in  his  horse,  was  pale 
and  sick  at  all  this;  but  he  found  voice  to  mur- 
mur, "Dolores." 

The  next  moment  a  girl  in  a  red  waist  pushed 
out  from  among  the  Penitentes,  and  ran  towards 
the  group,  but  one  of  the  soldiers,  struck  by  the 
murderous  look  of  hatred  in  her  face,  caught 
her,  just  as  Houghteling  cried  to  him:  "Seize 
that  woman!" 


THE    FIGHT  AT   THB   CHURCH  373 

In  their  first  surprise  at  the  sound  of  the  bugle, 
coming  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  Elevation 
and  drowning  the  tinkling  of  the  altar  bell,  the 
Penitentes  had  hurriedly  risen  from  their  knees 
and  turned  to  see,  as  the  curtain  was  quickly 
drawn  back,  the  blue  soldiers, — scores  of  them 
there  seemed, — with  guns  in  their  hands,  run- 
ning noiselessly  across  the  sand  towards  the 
church.  They  had  stood,  dumfounded,  dazed 
with  astonishment  and  horror,  drawing  back  a 
little  upon  one  another  as  the  soldiers  got  nearer. 
But  after  they  had  seen  Paez  fall,  and  seen  Fanita 
shoot  out  from  among  them, — with  a  sudden 
impulse,  they  had  pushed  out  furiously  behind 
her,  ferociously  wild-eyed. 

Alfie  seeing  them  come,  put  spur  to  his  horse, 
and  made  toward  them;  and  at  this  moment,  in 
the  midst  of  a  sudden  trampling  of  horses  behind 
him,  a  shot  rang  out.  The  Mormons  had  come. 
The  thought  flashed  through  Alfie's  mind  as  his 
right  arm  dropped  dangling  at  his  side,  and  his 
sword  fell  to  the  ground.  Before  Houghteling, 
who  was  beside  him,  had  time  to  turn  in  his  sad- 
dle and  to  draw  his  revolver,  Alfie  having 
seized  his  own  with  his  left  hand,  turned,  and 
catching  sight  of  Wivvers  who  had  drawn  up 
his  horse  behind  them,  fired.  Wivvers  reeled  in 
his  saddle,  and  as  his  pistol  went  off  again, 
tumbled  headlong. 

The  eight  other  Mormons,  whose  fingers  were 


374    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

on  their  triggers,  fired  a  wild  volley  and  then 
wheeled  and  galloped  off.  Houghteling  did  not 
shoot  after  them.  Alfie  was  feeling  his  arm  and 
trying  not  to  faint.  He  suddenly  had  to  grab 
hold  of  his  saddle  to  steady  himself. 

Meanwhile  the  Penitentes, — kicking,  striking 
blindly  with  their  fists,  and  even  biting, — strug- 
gled and  fought  with  the  soldiers,  who  during 
the  Mormon  episode  had  their  hands  full;  till 
on  hearing  Alfie's  shot  and  seeing  Wivvers  fall, 
the  fight  seemed  all  at  once  to  leave  the  Peni- 
tentes, and,  believing  from  Dolores's  sobs  that 
their  Christ  was  dead,  they  huddled  together  and 
made  but  slight  resistance  more.  Houghteling, 
when  he  saw  that  Wivvers  lay  still,  called  to  the 
soldiers:  "All  right.    Take  them  all !" 

"I  ain't  all  right/'  said  Alfie,  who  had  slipped 
off  and  was  leaning  against  his  horse,  trying  to 
laugh. 

Father  Chucho,  who  had  torn  off  his  chasuble 
and  his  cassock  and  left  them  lying  on  the 
chancel  floor, — running  out  after  all  the  others, 
resisted  so  fiercely  that  he  felled  one  soldier  by 
a  blow  on  the  brow;  and  it  took  four  more  to 
hold  the  little  man.  When  he  saw  that  it  was 
of  no  avail  to  fight,  he  stood  still  enough;  but 
speaking  in  Spanish  to  his  cowed  flock  about 
him,  and  specially  to  the  muttering  women  who 
kneeled  beside  Paez  fallen  on  his  cross, — he  ex- 


THE   FIGHT  AT  THE   CHURCH         37S 

horted  them  to  be  of  good  cheer,  for  the  end 
was  not  yet  come! 

The  others  were  surrounded  and  tied  together 
by  the  soldiers,  while  Houghteling  had  the 
church  searched.  The  crown  of  cactus  thorns, 
nails,  and  a  hammer  were  found  on  the  altar. 

"That  looks  serious,"  said  Houghteling.  "We: 
shall  have  to  take  them  with  us."  And  riding 
up  to  Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  he  saluted  and  said :. 
"Father,  I  fear  my  orders  will  require  me  to  take 
you  and  all  of  your  men-folk  to  Denver  with 
me. 

"And  leave  these  poor  stricken  women  alone," 
exclaimed  the  Father,  horrified,  waving  his  head 
towards  the  frightened  group  huddled  about  old 
Oestocris  where  she  kneeled  by  the  side  of  her 
son,  tearless  and  dazed. 

However,  resistance  was  again  of  no  avail. 

The  priest  translated  the  Captain's  command 
into  Spanish.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence.. 
Then,  the  sobs  of  the  women  breaking  out  freely,, 
they  clung  passionately  to  their  sons  and  hus- 
bands. 

Dolores  still  lay  on  the  body  on  the  cross. 

Father  Chucho  was  whispering  encourage- 
ment, when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  Captain's 
saying,  kindly  but  uncompromisingly:  "We  have 
no  time  to  spare.  I  trust  you  will  get  your  men 
together,  Father;   for  I  shall  not  order  them  to 


376    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

be  dragged  from  their  wives,  except  as  a  last 
necessity." 

"God  forbid!"  said  the  Father,  and  at  once 
spoke  to  them  in  Spanish. 

The  men,  obedient  as  always,  separated  from 
their  wives  and  mothers,  to  whom  Father  Maria 
de  Jesus  spoke  a  last  word:  "Be  good,  my  chil- 
dren, while  I  am  away.  Forgive  your  enemies; 
pray  for  us.  Do  not  forget  to  comfort  the  mother 
of  our  dead  who  died  in  the  Lord.  I  will  have 
father  Emanuele  send  some  one  up  to  bury  him. 
And  I  will  pray  to  God  and  trust  Him  to  keep 
you  and  care  for  you  till  He  permits  us  to  come 
again.     May  He  bless  you!" 

With  outstretched  hand  and  tearful  eyes  he 
murmured  his  benediction  upon  the  women  and 
upon  San  Rafael. 

The  last  thing  Stange  saw  as  he  looked  back 
was  Dolores  sitting  on  the  sand  with  the  head 
of  Paez  in  her  lap,  her  head  bent  down  over  him. 


XLII 

FAY'S  FUTURE 

DURING  the  last  minutes  of  HoughteU 
ing's  interview  with  Father  Maria  de 
Jesus,  Peter  Wezel  had  arrived  at  San 
Rafael  bringing  Dumain  and  Devlin  with  him 
in  his  mule  wagon.  The  soldiers  who  had  been 
left  to  keep  up  the  siege  of  the  priest's  house 
were  also  with  them. 

Father  Maria  de  Jesus,  Cristoke,  and  some 
others  of  the  older  men  among  the  prisoners 
were  put  into  the  wagon  to  ride  to  Antonito* 
The  others  marched  between  two  lines  of 
soldiers. 

As  the  cavalcade  was  starting  Dumain  said  to 
Houghteling,  smiling:  "I  see  you  have  succeeded 
admirably.  Now  don't  you  think  my  way  was 
the  best, — as  proved  by  results?" 

Houghteling  did  not  answer  him;  but  the 
Jesuit  pursued  complaisantly:  "However,  I  no- 
ticed you've  had  to  kill  one  man.  I'm  glad  I 
wasn't  here  to  see  that." 

"He  interfered  with  us,"  said  Houghteling* 
shortly,  turning  away  again  to  give  an  order. 

Dumain  gave  him  a  grim  though  rather 
amused  smile,  and  said  no  more. 

At  the  stream,  he  offered  to  bandage  Stange's 
arm.    Alfie  willingly  consented. 

377 


378    THE   PENITENTES  OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

"And  perhaps  you  will  tell  me,"  he  said  coax- 
ingly,  while  the  operation  was  doing,  "what 
game  you've  been  trying  to  work  all  along." 

Dumain  smiled  and  looked  over  at  Mount 
Blanca  on  the  distant  horizon. 

"You  see,"  he  explained  rather  impersonally, 
"'my  superiors  thought  Captain  Houghteling 
ought  not  to  get  to  San  Rafael  too  soon,  but  that 
he  ought  to  get  there  just  soon  enough." 

"Ow,  that  hurts!"  cried  Alfie  as  the  other 
squeezed  his  arm. 

And  he  asked  no  further  questions. 

Devlin,  however,  found  a  chance  to  say  to 
the  Jesuit:  "Father,  I  can  see  how  the  result  of 
this  has  all  been  due  to  you." 

Dumain  smiled.  "I  thank  you,"  he  said;  "but 
God  has  given  us  all  parts  to  play  in  this  world." 

They  arrived  at  the  hotel  in  time  and  to  spare 
for  the  three  o'clock  train. 

"I  guess  Wivvers  is  sorry  now  he  didn't  go  to 
Cripple  Creek,"  Wezel  suddenly  remarked, 
dryly. 

They  were  sitting  waiting  in  the  bar. 

"Why,  where  is  he?"  asked  Fay,  looking  up. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Houghteling,  at  last. 

"I  killed  him,"  ventured  Alfie  with  a  waver 
in  his  voice.  He  hadn't  liked  to  examine  Wiv- 
vers to  see  if  he  was  really  dead. 

Then  he  said  more  steadily,  seeing  Fay  still 


FAY'S  FUTURE  379 

as  calm  as  usual:  "I  should  be  sorry,  only  he  shot 
me  first.  Besides,  I  think  he's  better  out  of  the 
way." 

"Amen!"    added  Wezel,  emphatically. 

Fay  stared  at  Alfie's  arm  in  the  white  sling. 
Finally  she  said,  as  if  beginning-  a  new  subject 
of  conversation:  "I  don't  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do." 

"You  wouldn't  have  married  him,"  declared 
Alfie. 

"Maybe  I  would,"  she  said  simply. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do,"  said  Alfie,  with 
an  evident  effort,  getting  up  and  going  over  to 
her,  and  looking  at  her  green  sleeves;  "you  come 
to  Denver  with  me." 

"I  ain't  got  no  money  to  go,"  drawled  Fay. 

"Never  you  mind,"  he  smiled  at  her  now. 
"I've  got  enough.  Go  up  and  get  your  things 
ready." 

"Well,  I  can  decide  while  I'm  a-packm',"  said 
Fay,  and  left  the  room. 

Stange  stared  after  her,  his  back  to  the  others, 
and  then  went  out,  too.  Houghteling  immedi- 
ately following,  found  him  walking  in  front  of 
the  hotel. 

"You  don't  intend  to  take  her,"  he  said,  facing 
Alfie. 

"I  do,  too,"  Stange  answered  defiantly. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?" 

"Take  her  to  Colonel  Monroe's  wife.     She 


380    THE   PENITENTES   OF  SAN   RAFAEL 

told  me  she  had  the  hell  of  a  time  finding  a  good 
steady  girl." 

"Nonsense!" 

"She's  too  nice  a  little  girl  to  leave  in  this 
God-forsaken  hole,  Dan." 

"It's  best  for  a  soldier  to  leave  his  sweethearts 
where  he  finds  them,  Alf.  Among  other  women, 
you'd  soon  see  what  a  hulking  farmer  she  is. 
Mrs.  Monroe  wouldn't  want  her.  And  ten  to 
one  it'd  mean  unhappiness  either  for  you  or  the 
girl.     Better  drop  it,  boy." 

"It's  none  of  your  damned  business!"  said 
Stange,  rather  weakly,  looking  at  his  friend's 
eyes  for  one  instant. 

Then  he  turned  and  walked  away.  Houghtel- 
ing  watched  him  a  moment,  and  angrily  went  in 
again.  Soon  after  he  heard  some  one  come  in 
and  go  whistling  upstairs. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Captain  had  his  men 
and  his  prisoners  lined  up  at  the  station. 
Dumain  was  there,  too,  and  Wezel  to  see  them 
off.  Houghteling  paced  alone  up  and  down  the 
platform.  As  he  passed  the  door,  Alfred  Stange 
came  out.  The  smoke  of  the  approaching  train 
could  be  seen  far  down  the  tangent.  Houghtel- 
ing halted. 

"Where  is  the  girl?"  he  asked  in  a  lowered 
voice. 


FAY'S  FUTURE  3Sl 

Alfie  joined  him,  and  they  walked  up  the  plat- 
form again. 

'The  girl  trun  me  down,"  he  said  debonairly. 

"I  guess  you  trun  the  girl  down,"  said  Hough- 
teling,  with  a  look  of  relief. 

"The  girl  trun  me  down,  I  tell  you.  That's 
a  privilege  ladies  have." 

Houghteling  put  his  arm  round  Alfie's  shoul- 
der. 

"That's  my  bad  arm.  Damn  you!"  cried 
Alfie,  wincing. 

Houghteling  dropped  his  hand.  Then  Alfie 
put  his  good  left  arm  round  Houghteling's 
shoulder. 


THE  END 


— ""Sffiassv— ■« 

DAY    AND    TO    Si  On  °CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
OVERDUE.  $,°°    °N    T"«    SEVENTH     dIy 


LD2l-i00m-7,'40  (6936s) 


IB  32982 


988446 


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